
^ oeAfi dervSOft N orris 



Class y 2.3 

Book ,nwc 

Copyright N° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 























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Copyright, 1902, 

By FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY 


Registered at Stationers’ Hall, 
London, England 


Printed in the 

United States of America 


Published in January, 1902 


THE LIBRARY ©F 

CONGRESS, 
Two CutHtt Kecsveo 



JAN. 29 1902 


COPVWH3HT ENTRY 


. 0 *)/ 
C 3 Ct ✓' XXo. NO. 

IS'f'X'S' 

copy a 



This little book is very lovingly de- 
dicated to my Madonna col Bambino 















PREFACE 


Between Altruria and Bohemia there 
lies a land where allegiance is double 
and therefore doubtful* The moral 
outlaws and social banditti who 
occupy this land claim now censorship 
over society as a whole, and now 
individual exemption from the plainest 
and most righteous of human obliga- 
tions. This as it happens to fall in 
with the inclinations of their lofty 
egotism or low desires. 

Frank Bohemians and true Altru- 
rians will consequently recognize in 
the poseur of this story one who is not 
single of his kind, not unique nor 
extraordinary; but who belongs to an 
ilk set apart and peculiar, to be 
eyed askance, not altogether admired, 
nor wholly trusted, by the good folk 
of either camp into which he more 
often than not forcibly intrudes. 

Thanks are due 44 The New York 
Sun ” for the privilege of republishing 
here material which has already 
appeared in its columns. 

THE AUTHOR 



Cfje Color of fits g>oul 


CHAPTER L 

m went up in the elevator and 
pounded at the door, I 
might have rtmg and rung 
and she would never have 
heard me. Often I wondered what 
would happen to Mrs, Mallon in case of 
fire. What if the building were in 
flames and she locked in her flat unhear- 
ing! 

After a long time she came to the 
door. 

44 1 heard you, you see,” she said, 
proud of the fact , 44 but it was because I 
happened to be in the dining-room. 

If I had been in the front part of the 
flat you might have rung till doomsday. 
I am just having my supper. Will you 
have some with me?” 

44 I will sit here opposite you while 
you eat,” I told her, “but I have had my 
dinner, thank you. Where is Cecil?” 

44 He went over to Jane's.” Jane is 



The Color of His Soul 

his aunt. 44 He said he would be back to 
supper, but perhaps he stayed there 
instead. I waited and waited. Every- 
thing is cold now. Cecil is not very con- 
siderate. He often lets me wait, then 
never comes home.” 

44 He is young,” I apologized. 

44 Don't tell him that. He would 
rather be thought inconsiderate than 
young. Shall we go into the other 
room?” By and by, folding her napkin 
and putting it into a ring, she said: “ I 
dislike so the odor of the dining-room 
and kitchen. I get out of it always as 
soon as ever I can.” 

We took seats in the little parlor look- 
ing out from high windows upon the 
street. 

Setting her glasses astride her nose she 
regarded me critically. 

44 That's your new spring suit, isn't 
it?” she asked. 

44 Umph hum,” I answered. 

44 You always look so nice,” she con- 
tinued. “You have on some pretty new 
thing every time you come over here. 
Now look at me ! I am in the kitchen. 

I have to be. Then how can I be 
2 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

prettily dressed? I can't* I used to be 
like yon five years ago when I was 
doing work for all the papers and making 
money* Then Mr* Mallon put me in the 
kitchen* It finished my work*" 

I was about to say, How is that ? 

You have only the breakfast to get for 
no one but yourself and Cecil, for Mr. 
Mallon, who is a travelling man, is 
seldom at home. After the breakfast 
you have the day to work in until dinner 
time. The live long day* 

She read my thought* 

44 You can't get your mind on the 
writing," she explained, “ when you 
have every minute to be looking at the 
clock and thinking, now, in half an 
hour, it will be time to put on the 
potatoes and set the table* " 

44 Listen," I interrupted, 44 1 think 
it is the bell." 

44 How fortunate you are to be able 
to hear," she sighed, getting up and 
going to the door* 

44 Oh, I don't know," said I* 44 Deaf 
people have the advantage of missing 
most things that are said about them." 
44 Is that you, Cecil ?” I heard her call 


3 


Yhe Color of His Soul 
at the door. 

His voice in a loud tone, a trifle surly, 
answered: 

44 Yes, mother, it's me.” 

He advanced and stood in the broad 
doorway between the dining-room and 
the parlor, where I sat, smiling down 
upon me from his splendid height of six 
feet two. 

44 1 didn't know you were here,” said 
he. 

“ Instinct should have told you the 
moment you put your foot in the hall 
downstairs,” said I. 44 It is a pity you 
didn't. You might have used better 
grammar. Fancy a lecturer saying, 

4 Yes, mother, it's me !' Also perhaps you 
might have spoken more softly to that 
mother of yours out of deference to me.” 

41 How could I have spoken softly to 
her ? Would she have heard ? It is 
necessary to yell.” 

44 You know what I mean. You can 
yell in a gentle tone. Can't you?” 

44 Drop it,” he commanded , 44 and let 
me look at you. My goodness ! What 
glad rags you've got on ! You are out 
of sight, girlie. Stand up and turn 


4 


The Color of His Soul 

around. I want to see how it sets in the 
back.” 

“I'm no wax figure in a show window. 
Look at me awhile in this pose. Then 
when I do stand up, you'll have a 
pleasant surprise, cat eye.” 

" If you don't quit calling me 'cat eye' 
I know what I'll call you.” 

"What?” 

" I'll spend a day or two thinking it 
up. Mother, are you getting my supper 
ready?” 

Her voice came clearly from kitchen- 
ward. 

44 It is ready now.” 

"What have you got for me to drink?” 

"Chocolate.” 

" It won't do. Make me some coffee. 
I'll need it for my lecture, to clear my 
brain. Say, (to me) how did you 
happen to come over to-night?” 

"To see you, of course.” 

" I wish I could believe it,” tenderly. 

" But you are looking beautiful.” He 
bent nearer to me. 

I stared into his eyes. The pupils 
were rounded at the top and pointed 
downward most peculiarly. They were 


5 


The Color of His Soul 

the pupils of a cat's eye precisely, except 
for the fact that they were rounded at 
the top. 

I shook my head. 

“ I never saw anything like them," 

I declared. 

"I am proud," he averred, “that there 
is any sort of peculiarity about me that 
will make you stare at me like that. 

Not only proud, but glad." 

“ The coffee is ready," his mother 
announced. 44 Come on before it has 
time to get cold." 

He rose to that full height of his, and 
backed away from me. 

44 Now," he gloated, “ I shall see you 
get up." 

I got up with a laugh. He bowed low, 
half mockingly, half admiringly. 

44 You'll do," he concluded, and led 
me to a place near him at the table. 

44 This chocolate I got ready for Cecil," 
remarked his mother, the cup in hand, 

44 is going to waste.’' 

44 It's a pity to see anything going to 
waste these hard times," said 1 , 44 give 
it to me. I'll drink it." 

Cecil drank his coffee and ate some 


6 


Yhe Color of His Soul 

chops she had set before him* 

" You are coming with me to-night ," 
he said with such positiveness that I felt 
myself going whether I wanted to or not* 
44 I'm awfully tired/' I commenced, 
deprecatingly* 

44 That's all yon care for the cause of 
humanity," he sneered* 44 You can't 
even go to a lecture for the purpose of 
learning a few things about the poor*" 
44 1 love the cause of humanity," I 
declared* 44 My heart is with the poor* 

I have studied the slums in Italy, in 
Paris, in London*" 

44 But not in New York, your own 
town in your own country?" 

44 Have you?" I asked* 

He hesitated* 

" You know you haven't," I followed 
up* "You lecture about it, but what do 
you really know* Things you learn 
from reading socialistic papers, and 
that's all* For me, if I wrote about a 
thing I would study it." 

"Ido study it*" 

" From statistics," I said* He did not 
deny it. " It is no way to learn. You 
must see to know." 


7 


T/ie Color of His Soul 

44 We will study it together/' 

“When?” 

“ Oh, sometime this summer.” 

44 1 admire your enthusiasm. And 
this is the beginning of May !” 

“ When would you have me com- 
mence? To-morrow?” 

44 You couldn't find a day that would 
be as near this one except yesterday, 
that's gone. Yes. To-morrow.” 

“ You are wonderfully in earnest all of 
a sudden. And yet you hesitate to go 
with me to my lecture to-night.” 

“I've heard about that lecture. 
Some high-faluting pyrotechnics you 
have accumulated through fire brand 
literature. I know what it is quite the 
same as if I had heard it.” 

He faced me with blazing eyes. 

“ You go with me to-night,” he 
decided, “ or you'll know the reason 
why. Mother ! shall I put on my glad 
rags? Dolly's got on hers.” 

“The last time you gave that lecture,” 
she reminded him, “ they mocked at 
your 4 glad rags.' They got up and said 
they hoped their poor, oppressed, down- 
trodden children would grow up to look 
8 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

as prosperous as you in your white neck- 
tie and your dapper swallow tail/' 

** Then I wouldn't be downed," said 
If 44 I'd wear them in spite of them." 

“I will "he decided. “ I wouldn't 
want to walk along side of you in my old 
clothes anyway. Wouldl?" 

"If I am going with you, go on and 
get ready. I'm tired now. Dear knows 
what I'll be after that lecture of yours. 
Hurry!" 

He vanished into his own room. His 
mother, her hat and gloves on, came and 
sat by me while he dressed. 

44 Cecil is young to be giving these 
lectures," she said, smoothing out the 
wrinkles of the gloves and buttoning 
them deliberately. 44 1 am proud of him, 
but what I am afraid of is that he will 
overwork himself, and go into a decline. 
It is better, according to my notion, to 
be unknown and alive than famous and 
dead. He has been making himself 
quite celebrated lately. Have you 
seen the notices of him in the papers?" 

44 Some. I am waiting to hear him to 
determine whether his celebrity is due to 
the strength of his lecture, the cause of 


9 


The Color of His Soul 

humanity he has taken up, or to his 
extreme youth/' 

44 It is a popular cause, socialism, and 
he is young, but I have heard him talk. 
There is much that is fine in it, that is 
rather wonderful, it seems to me, and I 
think I am just in my judgment, even 
though I am his mother. ♦ . Cecil! 
are you ready? It is eight o'clock. 

High time to start. Come on !" 

He opened the door and appeared, 
radiant in his evening dress. 

I stood off admiring him, his height, 
his clean length of limb, his young head 
erect in the pride of conscious ability, 
his cat eyes fixed upon me in a smiling 
gleam of satisfaction with himself. 

44 Well," said he. 

44 I'm looking at those eyes of yours," 
said 1 , 44 and wondering and wondering." 

His mother had reached the elevator. 

44 Come on, you two," she cried. “ It's 
late, Hurry!" 


10 


CHAPTER XL 

E walked a block down Lex- 
ingtonAvenue, and then 
turned east* 

Instinctively I gathered 
up the skirt of my gown* It was of a 
delicate grey lacking little of being 
white* 

44 Do we go on the Third Avenue L?” 
I questioned* 

44 Of course* How else can we get to 
the slums ? You are a fine would-be 
philanthropist* Afraid of trailing out of 
the clean road of respectability and 
soiling your skirts* Raising them from 
the mud of the common people ! Bah ! ” 

44 1 am no would-be philanthropist,” 

I remonstrated* 44 I'm the real thing* 
But this gown is so light, Cecil* 

Couldn't we go on the Sixth Avenue L?” 

44 Yes, and transfer sixteen times, and 
get there too late* We are late enough 
as it is* Hurry ! That's our train*” 

Running up the steps he thrust a 
quarter into the aperture for our tickets, 
snatched them, rushed us through to the 
train which was upon the eve of starting. 




^The Color of His Soul 

and into the car. There we stood for a 
while. Presently, however, a seat was 
offered his mother and another to me. 
Soon some one moved away and gave 
the seat next to me to Cecil. 

44 They are courteous enough,” said 
I, thanking him, “ aren't they?” 

44 It's perhaps due partly to your 
dainty togs. Still, because a man is a 
working man is no reason why he 
shouldn't have something of the soul of a 
gentleman. Y ou can't always j udge by 
the clothes,” 

“ You can pretty well judge of the 
class by the clothes. Take this train, 
for instance, and compare it with the 
Sixth Avenue. The difference in class 
is obvious to the naked eye. It's a 
different world, the east and the west. 

See the patches on that man's coat. 

Look at the woman with her baby 
wrapped up in a shawl. Look at those 
half drunken, hiccoughing boys coming 
home from the ball game, one with his 
arm around that little girl who is much 
too pretty to be so far from her mother 
at this time of night.” 

44 1 see it all. It is not class dis- 


12 


The Color of His Soul 

tinction. It is money distinction.” 

44 Money makes class distinction.” 

" So it does in this country. And 
that's what I'm fighting. Money should 
be equally divided. There should be no 
very rich and very poor. A man is 
entitled to a division of the spoils, to 
a just proceed of his labor.” 

" In other words, the millionaires 
should be forced to divvy up?” 

" Just so.” 

I laughed. 

44 That will come along with the 
millenium,” I predicted. 

He looked down on me with a 
frown. 

" I'm not so sure. It is the end 
toward which I am working. It may 
come sooner.” 

44 You !” and I laughed some more. I 
held my handkerchief to my mouth, 
convulsed with laughter. 

His frown deepened. 

44 Sometimes,” he muttered impres- 
sively, 44 1 don't know whether I hate 
you or love you.” 

44 Think it over,” I suggested. 
"What?” 


13 


T/te Color of His Soul 

“ And meantime, observe the slanting 
brow of that man who nods in the corner 
over there, his loose collar, his necktie 
all awry* At least, poor though he may 
be, it takes no extra expenditure to keep 
the necktie tied, does it ?” 

“The slanting brow,” he mused. 

44 It is a good phrase.” 

44 You think more of the phrasing than 
of the people,” said I. 

44 1 will let you say that, since it is you. 
The slanting brow. It is poverty that 
slants back the brow, that robs of 
delicacy of feeling, of sensitiveness, of 
pride that goes to adjust the necktie and 
pull down the vest. It is the ghastly 
struggle for daily bread, the fear of want, 
the horror of starvation, the existence 
upon pittances, paltry pay that leaves 
merely the power to live, with absolutely 
no margin.” 

44 Workingmen and women of all 
classes are better paid in this than in the 
old country,” said I, with conviction. 

44 1 have studied the subject. I know. 
In Italy a man works for next to nothing 
or begs, and the little girls ! Those who 
string coral, string it for five cents a day. 

14 


< The Color of His Soul 

They labor all day long. The lace 
makers put out their eyes over bobbins 
for five cents, often, ten, not more, and 
the artists! They get a dollar. In 
Venice I went through the glass works 
and saw. There were scores of artists, 
finishing mosaics for a church in Cali- 
fornia. They were doing marvels in the 
way of execution and design, and what 
was their wage? Five francs. That is 
to say, one dollar, the pay of our 
laborers in the fields. ... In Italy, it 
seems, they still live by the rules of St. 
Francis.” 

“ And what are those rules?” 

44 You must work without money and 
be poor,” I quoted. 44 You must work 
without pleasure and be chaste. You 
must work according to orders and be 
obedient.” 

“ Say them over again and say them 
slow,” he commanded. 

I did so. 

44 Three more pernicious rules for the 
grinding of helpless victims into the 
bottomless pit of poverty I have never 
listened to,” he vowed. 44 That old 
priest should have been tarred and 
15 


The Color of His Soul 

feathered and tied to a post and burnt. 
Was that what they did to him?” 

“ I give it up.” 

“ Well, it's a shame if they didn't. 
What station is this?” peering out. “It's 
ours, by Jove ! Come, mother. We 
get off here. Step lively.” 

44 It's a good watchword for New 
York. Step lively.” 

44 If you don't you're liable to get lost 
in the rush. Get a move on you. 
Come !” 

We ran across the net work of car 
lines down two blocks, across two others, 
and finally brought up before a house, 
the second story windows of which, 
curtainless, showed bare walls illumined 
by the lights of one chandelier. 

44 1 think this is the place,” said Cecil, 
in a tone which spoke of slight disap- 
pointment; for the house was neither 
a large one nor sumptuous. 

A group of small boys surrounded us. 

44 Yes, this is the place,” they affirmed. 

44 You go right in that doorway up 
there,” pointing. 44 There's a boy 
anarchist going to lecture.” 

“Your fame precedes you,” said I, 

16 


The Color of His Soul 

and screamed; for in alarming vicinity 
to my skirts a fire cracker had gone off 
with volcanic report. 

Cecil turned angrily upon them, but 
the offenders had disappeared. Here 
and there above an iron railing frowseled 
heads bobbed up laughingly as we 
ascended the steps and entered the hall. 

We had hurried needlessly. The hall 
was almost empty. Two fat women, 
a child in a bright red dress, and a short 
thin man occupied it. 

A narrow table had been placed 
between the windows. Upon it was a 
water bottle and glass. Opposite it 
stood chairs in rows, cane bottomed 
chairs whose cane was slightly dis- 
figured in spots and curled. 

Cecil placed two near the table 
for his mother and me. We sat down 
directly across from the child in the 
bright red dress. 

44 1 remember when I was that small/' 
his mother began in the low tone 
common to deaf people, 44 1 had the 
same sort of dress, as brilliant a red as 
dye could make it. There was an old 
turkey gobbler in the farm yard and 


17 


Ihe Color of His Soul 

the fun I used to have with him in that 

dress! I would get in front of him 
and fan up and down, spreading out my 
skirts and screaming* It was like wav- 
ing a red rag at a bull* The way that 
old thing would prance up and down, 
strutting and scraping his wings on the 
ground, tickled me nearly to death* 
Hours and hours I used to spend teasing 
him to strut*” 

The room began gradually to fill. 

44 I'm surprised to see the style down 
here in the slums,” she kept on, whisper- 
ing. 44 Look at the girl with the pretty 
pink waist and the stylish hat with the 
buckle on it* That slim woman over 
there looks nice too. They are dressed 
as if they were coming to church or 
prayer-meeting* I suppose it is a sort 
of religion with them, this study of 
socialism.” 

“ I see only one man who looks like a 
working man here,” I whispered back. 
“The one in the dark blue shirt, 
clothes the color of the soil, and with 
wrinkles all over his face* The one with 
the russet cheeks, I mean.” 

44 Sometimes it's the very people who 

18 


The Color of His Soul 

are not working people who stir tip the 
workingmen to all their devilment,” 
she reasoned. 44 It's what I tell Cecil, 
but he won't hear to it, of course, not 
being what yoti might call a workingman 
himself and doing as far as I can see, a 
good deal of the stirring.” 

At that moment Cecil approached. 

“ I am going to begin now in a mintite 
or two,” he informed me. 

44 It is kind of you to prepare me.” 

44 There is a good deal of political 
economy and truck in the first part of 
this lecture I'm afraid yon won't under- 
stand. . ♦ ” 

44 Make it plain as possible,” I 
implored. 44 Talk as if you were talking 
to a child. I don't want to miss any- 
thing.” 

44 Don't be silly. If yon will try and 
listen throngh that part — yon are a 
woman, it doesn't make mnch dif- 
ference whether yon nnderstand it or 
not — yon'll be waked np all right 
enongh by the peroration. It's fierce.” 

44 Go on,” said 1 , 44 and be snre yon 
wake me when yon come to it.” 


19 


CHAPTER III. 

S he had said, the beginning 
of his lecture was princi- 
pally dry statistics. He 
receded to the Middle Ages. 
He discussed feudalism, the commence- 
ment of slavery in which the slaves went 
with the land. 

He passed to chattel slavery, dwelling 
briefly upon the slavery of the Southern 
States. Here he made several erroneous 
statements which I felt strongly inclined 
to stand up and refute. Remembering 
his youth, however, I forced myself to 
desist. 

Now and then two little yellow-haired 
girls, at the peril of falling from the high 
stoop outside, leaned forward and looked 
in at the window, their curls dangling, 
their eyes shining. 

They distracted the attention of the 
child inside of the bright red dress. 

It was rather clever, the manner in 
which he classed the slavery of the 
different ages, finishing with the wage 
slaves of to-day. That was his favorite 
phrase, “ The wage slaves.” Those 



20 


‘The Color of His Soul 

fellowmen of his who labored day in and 
day out for barely sufficient to sustain 
life, the men who erected the houses in 
which we dwelt, who mined the coal that 
kept us warm, who built the massive 
roads over which we traveled in luxury 
throughout the length and breadth of 
this great land* 

More than once loud reports of fire- 
crackers outside, followed by roars of 
childish laughter, roused those within; 
but the speaker maintained his calm and 
quiet mien, standing almost motionless, 
his gestures few and fairly fine, his 
head held proudly erect, his eyes 
ablaze with the fire of his own 
eloquence* 

44 It was futile,” he declared, u to talk 
of a free Republic while Money ruled the 
land* While Money bought seats in 
Senate and Legislature. While Money 
turned the tide of law-making in favor of 
the moneyed few* While the head of 
affairs, the President of these United 
States was a mere tool in the hands of 
trusts and combines — a cat's paw for 
the rich* While at his command regi- 
ments were ordered out to protect the 


21 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

interests of the oppressors of the poor 
and to shoot down the ragged outcasts 
who dared band together in the attempt 
to win the miserable right to live. 

44 Surrounded by the splendor of the 
White House, to him squalor and 
poverty were words utterly incom- 
prehensible. He pursued the 
even tenor of his way, as serene, 
smiling and careless of the starving 
thousands rendered homeless by 
strikes as our millionaires who sail the 
Mediterranean and spend the money 
earned by their slaves abroad. 

44 And of what avail were those strikes? 
For one of those who dared to strike 
there were hundreds ready and willing, 
so strong is the incentive to preserve life, 
to work for the pittance they refused and 
take their places. A call for a thousand 
workingmen would bring them twenty 
thousand, clamoring for the vacancies, 
hungry for bread.” 

Heads were raised at this juncture 
about the room. The lone workingman 
looked stolidly at him out of gloomy 
eyes, accentuated by {he glowing russet 
of flaming cheeks. 


22 


TAe Color of His Soul 

Then came the promised peroration* 
The speaker braced himself for it* A 
subtle change came over the spirit of his 
gesticulation. His strange eyes flashed* 

"We glow with pride,” he cried, "that 
with the blood of our glorious North we 
have wiped out the shameful slavery of 
the South; but what of the wage slaves 
of the North, of the South, of the East, 
of the West ? The wage slaves at our 
elbow in the slums of New York, 
huddled into tenements, bowed in 
sweatshops, toiling by the dim light of 
windows opening onto air shafts, ground 
to the earth by the iron hand of the 
Almighty dollar* What of them? 

" The shirt on your back,” he con- 
tinued, his voice raised slightly, " was 
stitched by the attenuated fingers of half 
starved women? bloodlessly white from 
the want of food that nourishes? — 
your vest, your coat, your over- 
coat. The 4 L f that brought you here 
is run by men exhausted by the work 
of twelve hours out of the twenty- 
four* The meat you eat was cut up by 
half grown boys, standing ankle deep in 
the blood of slain animals, for a wage 


23 


The Color of His Soul 

barely sufficient to keep breath in their 
bodies and blood in their veins, 

“ What of these wage slaves? What 
of these serfs ? Is it not time and past 
time for some John Brown to strike their 
note of freedom ? A note that will 
sound and resound from state to state, 
from shore to shore, from ocean to 
ocean, a bugle call that shall strike terror 
to the heart of the oppressor of the poor, 
that shall unleash the bonds, unclash 
their crushing chains, and, snatching 
them up from the slough of despond, 
free them forever and forever, I say the 
time has come ! And this is the hour !" 

He sat down. 

There was applause. There was the 
taking up of a small collection, as in 
church. There was some slight dis- 
cussion at wild variance with the theme 
and unimportant; the meeting adjourned 
and Cecil came toward us. 

44 Well/' he said, and paused 
expectantly. 

44 You were right about that perora- 
tion," I assented. “ It was fierce." 

He turned on his heel, disgusted. I 
followed hastily, to make peace; but he 


24 


Hhc Color of His Soul 

strode on ahead down the steps and along 
the street in moody silence* Frightened 
I slipped on the other side of his mother 
and walked there until we ascended the 
elevator steps and took our seats in the 
car* 

His mother and I sat together opposite 
him* She, tired, half nodded* By and by, 
relenting, he looked at me and smiled* 

“What did you think of my gestures?” 
he enquired. 

“ A man so wrapped up in great ques- 
tions concerning the public good,” I 
began hesitatingly, fearful of once more 
offending, “the unclanking of chains and 
the freeing of the wage slaves, shouldn't 
think of his gestures, it seems to me.” 

He frowned* 

“ He should think of everything,” he 
declared, “as means to the one great end.” 

It appeared plausible. 

“ But,” I went on, changing the sub- 
ject. “ What I'm afraid of is the effect 
it will have on that lone workingman* 
Suppose he gets excited, goes out and 
burns down a house* Then your tirade 
against the President seemed to me to 
be in atrocious taste and uncalled for* 


25 


The Color of His Soul 

He has made a magnificent President* 
We should be proud of his record in 
the late war and those of us who are 
sane are.” 

He interrupted me with an impa- 
tient shrug. 44 1 suppose then,” he 
answered, 44 that I am to be adjudged 
insane.” 

44 Something very nearly kin to it,” 

I admitted. 44 You call yourself So- 
cialist, but your principles, according 
to my notion, border very nearly upon 
Anarchism. Why should you incense 
illiterate, irresponsible creatures 
against our President ? Two have 
been shot within the past twenty years. 
Isn't that enough? Shame on you! 
You should see the splendid picture in 
the Louvre of McKinley signing the 
Peace treaty. During my exile over 
there, often and often I stood before 
it, admiring him, proud as could be. 
Another thing ! I was not particularly 
pleased with your tirades against the 
slavery of the South. It is a subj ect 
which fails to rejoice me. I am a 
Southern woman. Therefore, I am one 
of the victims of the War. My father 

26 


The Color of His Soul 

owned slaves* The war freed them* 
Now, in consequence, I am a slave to the 
New York editors.” 

“Why,” he exclaimed, leaning forward 
and caressing my fingers, 44 you are one 
of my wage slaves* My wage slave !” he 
repeated fondly* 44 My little wage 
slave !” 

44 You might call it that. I never 
thought of it* It is what I am. Slavery 
was not abolished by the war* It was 
merely switched about. The negroes 
are free, but the whites are bound fast by 
the chains of poverty, and will be till the 
half century rolls around, necessary for 
the wiping out of the hideous ravages 
caused by any war* Look at me.” 

44 I'm looking at you,” he murmured. 

44 Instead of dwelling in marble halls, 
with vassals and slaves around me,” I 
complained, 44 1 pound the typewriter.” 

Leaning forward a second time he 
pressed a fold of my gown between his 
forefinger and thumb* 

“The texture is fine,” he mused* 

“ There is lace on her bodice. There are 
flowers on her hat. The chains ! The 
scourge ! The knout ! Where are they ?” 

27 


The Color of His Soul 

44 They are concealed in the little 
deadly printed slips with which the 
editors reject my manuscripts," I 
retorted, “ In the failures ! In the ♦ ♦ • 

“ Never have I seen a wage slave 
dressed so fine/' he interrupted, 44 With 
eyes so clear. With complexion so 
radiant," 

44 We keep a stiff tipper tip” I retorted; 
44 we Southern women. But every- 
where you will find us at work. More 
of us, I think sometimes, than the men. 
We are keeping boarding houses in large 
cities. We are dress making. We are 
trimming hats. Still, with the inborn 
taste of the French — many of us are 
descended from the French — we love 
dress and when we can we wear it. Is 
this 125th?" 

44 It is," rousing. 44 Come, mother. 
We are here." 

At the door of her apartment she 
kissed me good-bye and went on in. 

44 Don't keep her too long talking on 
the stoop, Cecil," she admonished. 

44 She is tired, remember." 

We walked slowly home, which was 
about two blocks away, he tall as a wil- 
28 


Yhe Color of His Soul 

low, I some twelve inches lower. 

44 At any rate your lecture interested 
me,” I told him. 44 So much so that I 
am going down to the slums to-morrow 
if I have to go alone. I want to find 
those half grown boys cutting up the 
meat we eat while they stand ankle deep 
in the blood of animals.” 

44 You are so foolish, Dolly. “ Y ou 
won't find them there. They are at the 
packing houses in Chicago somewhere.” 

“ Then you have never seen them?” 

44 No. But I know it is true.” 

I shook my head. 

“I'll have to see it before I believe it,” 
I averred. “ In the meantime I'll try 
to find out what is going on in the 
slums.” 

We stood on the stoop. He toyed 
with the lace of my jacket. 

44 There is to be a meeting of the Sun- 
set Club next week,” he informed me 
presently, 44 and a dinner. Would you 
like to go?” 

44 What sort of club is it?” 

“A sort of socialistic affair. They 
believe in jumping the broomstick, 
drinking a cup of tea together, or any 

ag 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

kind of old formula in the place of the 
regular marriage ceremony performed by 
the priest* And they don't believe in 
God*" 

I raised my eyes to the serene old 
moon, sailing on in its snow white fleece 
of clouds. 

“ There is something lacking, it seems 
to me," I reflected, "in those people who 
don't believe in God*" 

He laughed, his strange eyes gleaming 
in the moonlight. 

“ I should think," he said, “that a 
woman so advanced as you would have 
long ago recovered from that old 
fantasy*" 

Involuntarily I shrank from him, 
drawing away the lace out of his hands. 

44 From what old fantasy, Cecil?" I 
queried. 

“ That of religion," he replied* 44 The 
moth-eaten fable of Adam and Eve* I 
suppose you believe that too?" 

I was silent. 

44 And that Christ was the Son of 
God?" 

44 1 believe that," I said solemnly, as if 
the purple dome of the night was shut 

30 


T/ie Color of His Soul 

out from view and we stood beneath 
that of some dim cathedral* “ I do*” 

He laughed again* 

** And when we die, we shall all go to 
heaven and wear shining robes and play- 
on harps?” 

** It is a beautiful belief* You are too 
young to do without it* Children and 
women must have the staff of religion to 
lean on. Otherwise they stumble.” 

44 Lean on yourself* And the more 
you lean on yourself the stronger you will 
become* There is no other life,” he 
added finally* 

44 What becomes then of our kindred 
souls ? Shall we never see them ? ” 

44 How would you know a soul if you saw 
it ? Do you think for one moment that 
if my soul came walking down the 
street, you would recognize it? No* 
Young as it is you would never take it for 
the soul you thought it to be* Why ! 

If the soul of your best friend, the friend 
you think you know more intimately 
than any other, faced you suddenly you 
would in all probability run away from 
it screaming. It would be so black.” 

44 Oh, no ! ” 


The Color of His Soul 

“ Or so strange and weird with 
thoughts and feelings you could not com- 
prehend, so intangibly different from 
what you had imagined it to be, I say 
you would run away from it* Then how 
about meeting it in heaven ? W ouldn' t 
it be the same there ?” 

44 It would be purified,” I argued* 

44 Clean and white as the clouds floating 
around that yellow moon*” 

44 Then,” he sneered, 44 you would be 
less apt to recognize it than ever* You 
wouldn't recognize it at all*” 

I regarded him in silence* 

44 Don't look at me like that,” he said, 
44 out of your big black eyes* Sweep 
these crude ideas from your head, Dolly, 
and you will be perfect* I hate to see 
your intellect cobwebbed with them. 
They are unworthy of you. You, with 
your advanced theories in all other 
directions, with your ability, with your 
brain.” 

I made him a sweeping curtsy. 

44 You do me too much honor,” I 
smiled, “ but the moon is going quite 
down behind those housetops yonder, 
and* * * ” 


32 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

44 The hoar is late/' he finished* “ I 
will go* Kiss me good-bye*" 

44 You have asked me that before* 
When I want to kiss you, Cecil," and I 
quickly put up my handkerchief to 
suppress a yawn — “ I will do so of my 
own accord*" 

At that he raised my hand to his lips 
and kissed it in so fine and courtly a way 
that I followed his tall figure down the 
steps and off with half a sigh. 


33 


CHAPTER IV. 

E went swiftly down town on 
a whirling tram, passed 
into a splendid station bril- 
liant with electrics, took a 
street car or two and found eventually 
the hotel at which the Sunset Club was 
to dine. 

Upstairs we peeled off otir wraps in 
separate rooms and descending the stairs 
stood in the parlor looking about tis, I, 
anxious to see whether or not those 
people who drank cups of tea in lien of 
the marriage ceremony, and denied their 
God, had the same appearance as other 
folk. 

No horns nor cloven feet showed them- 
selves. Except that in some instances 
they were curiously dressed, they had 
every appearance of people ordinarily 
sane. They sat stiffly about, the men 
together and the women together, chat- 
ting low-toned, awaiting the announce- 
ment that dinner was served. 

I was about to turn to the window and 
look out as a relief from the rows of 
uninteresting faces, when a small square 



34 


'The Color of His Soul 

fresh-complexioned man entered the 
room, and with outstretched hand, 
approached me* 

44 So it is you,” he smiled* 

“ Yes,” I answered, “It is I*” 

Cecil shook hands with him* 

44 Tm rejoiced to see you, Tucket,” he 
said. “ How do you come to be here ?” 

44 1 had an invitation,” he explained, 

“ and so I came. And you,” once more 
turning to me, “ are you in league with 
these ? Surely not l” 

44 Most assuredly not, but I gather 
material. It must be plucked, you 
know, from both weed and flower.” 

“ I suppose,” bowing, “ that I, too, go 
in as material — of the flower variety, of 
course. If I am to be plucked, however, 
by so fair a hand, I shan't mind being 
plucked.” 

44 You were born too late,” I laughed. 
“ You should have existed a century or 
so back with the buckled shoes and the 
knickerbockers.” 

At length dinner was announced. W e 
walked into the dining-room along with 
the others. There were four of us by 
now; for Tucket had introduced a friend. 


35 


The Color of His Sou t 
Ward Dickerson* 

44 A fish out of water,” he explained to 
me sotto voce* 44 A deacon in the 
Methodist Church* Watch him get 
shocked* Y ou also are liable to several 
severe shocks if you are not careful* 

Has Cecil revealed to you the nature of 
this club ? That the president thereof, 
not believing in marriage after affection 
has taken to itself wings and fled, has 
left his wife and children, who are now 
with her father and mother, the same as 
in the olden days, with the exception of 
the children*” 

“ As usual, the woman suffers*” 

44 Naturally* That's what she was 
built for* Woman wouldn't be happy 
if she wasn't suffering* The man galli- 
vants around* It's the same with the 
four-footed tribe* Then why not with 
man? There are other surprises in store 
for you besides* The last time I was 
here they put their napkins around their 
necks and one man resigned because the 
menu was in French. That's the kind 
of a club this club is*” 

We sat down at narrow tables, I 
between Cecil and Tucket, and Dickerson 
36 


The Color of His Soul 

on the other side* 

First they served four oysters* 

“ You are not hungry, are you?” 
enquired Tucket, anxiously* 

“ Not very,”ruefully* " Why ?” 

44 Never come to a Sunset Club dinner 
hungry,” he admonished* 44 It's a mis- 
take* Did you ever hear that story of 
Nat Goodwin and the man who took him 
to a fifty-cent table d'hote? No ! Well 
it's apropos* I'll tell it* The man at 
each course kept saying, 4 Now, Nat, 
isn't this a fine dinner? Isn't it excel- 
lent ? Did you ever eat a better dinner 
in your life for fifty cents ?' Then at the 
last course, when he had repeated this 
formula some seven times — I think there 
were seven courses which rolled together 
would hardly have served for one — Nat 
said , 4 Yes* It's a splendid dinner* A 
splendid dinner* Let's have another*' ” 
Tucket was an excellent talker. The 
dinner passed off bravely in spite of its 
scarceness, the chairs were turned and 
the speaking commenced* 

The paper of the evening was read by 
a Japanese writer. His theme was, “Is 
Religion in its Decadence?” 


37 


Hhc Color of His Soul 

His appearance was peculiar. Fairly 
tall, a shock of dark hair hanging loosely, 
the lower lip protruding in an odd and 
mask-like way, dark eyes back of glitter- 
ing glasses, he rose from his chair as from 
the Orient. 

Master of many languages, he spoke 
English with a curious intonation, a 
mixture of brogues which served to 
fascinate, the close reading of the manu- 
script alone taking away from its charm. 

Being a Japanese, he could hardly be 
expected to be a Christian. In an 
unbiased way he discussed all religions. 
He gave an interesting resume of the 
commencements of sects, each headed by 
a leader, of spiritualism, of Buddhism, of 
Christianity, and of the gradual deca- 
dence of their intensity. It was a long 
paper and clever to a degree. 

At the end first one and then the other 
essayed to criticise. The criticisms were 
meaningless. They were merely renewed 
assertions that there is no divinity, there 
is no other life. This world is the be- 
all and the end-all; eat, drink and be 
merry; for to-morrow we die. 

The Japanese looked a trifle wearied. 

38 


The Color of His Soul 

Dickerson yawned outright* 

44 This thing fatigues me,” he said to 
Tucket* 44 Why did you bring me here ?” 

Someone called upon Cecil to speak* 

I was proud of him as he rose to that 
giant height of his and discoursed upon 
his favorite theme, socialism, the wage 
slaves; though an East side socialist, fol- 
lowing, scored him, dubbing him first of 
all a disciple of Herron's* 

44 D' tall young gent wot just spoke ” 
he said, ** reminds me o' Napoleon* 
When dat guy wanted a subject, all he 
had t' do wuz t' pull out a drawer of 
his mind, an' dere it wuz, Napoleon 
had several drawers* Dis gent only has 
one — Socialism, wage slaves, d' wiping 
off d' face o' de eart of d' moneyed 
powers an' dat, see ! !" 

Then he sat down* 

44 Hard on you, wasn't it, old chap,” 
laughed Tucket. 44 Listen now. A 
woman* Hear what she has to say ! ” 

I listened* 

She was a short, stout woman, with 
grey hair, who should have been reading 
her Bible and preparing to die* This is 
what she said: 


39 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

She had no religion* She had never 
been accused of having any and hoped 
she should never be so accused* She had 
several children who also, so far as she 
knew, were destitute of religion* Or so 
she hoped* She was assured of the fact 
that she had never been guilty of teach- 
ing them those ridiculous fairy tales 
commonly taught to the children of 
America in schools and at home. 

Dickerson slowly stroked his blond 
mustache, looking sidewise at me* I 
breathed with difficulty* 

She wanted her children, she con- 
tinued, to be strong in their own might, 
independent, leaning upon no myths, no 
fables for support. She wanted all those 
cobwebs swept from their brains, if they 
had gathered there, with fine, clean 
brooms of thought, the free, progressive 
thought of the twentieth century, guilt- 
less of mediaevalism and of cant* 

I glanced quizzically back at Cecil, 
but he returned my look unflinchingly* 
These were much his own words of the 
evening before. So this was where his 
theories were sprouted ! I made up my 
mind to talk to his mother awhile, to 


40 


The Color of His Soul 

persuade her into keeping him at home 
of nights after the ringing of the curfew 
and making him go to bed* 

Dickerson drew me to him with a 
whisper. 

“ Examine her eyes,” he suggested. 

“ Isn't there something strange about 
them? See their glitter. It is almost 
as if she wore spectacles. They are part 
insane, these people who stand up and 
talk like that. They ought, by rights, 
to be put into straight jackets. They 
are like mad dogs, dangerous to the 
general public. They should be 
muzzled* When she gets through, what 
do you say to going ? I feel smothered 
here.” 

44 I'll go,” I acquiesced, promptly. 
“So do I.” 

The woman had taken her seat. We 
had not heard the last of her oration. It 
was just as well. 

“What are you about,” asked Tucket, 
in surprise, as we rose. 

“ Going,” replied Dickerson; laconi- 
cally. “We are no gourmands. We 
know when we've had enough.” 

They followed us, Cecil little pleased 


41 


The Color of His Soul 
at the exit* 

" Why didn't yon stay?" he asked, 
angrily. " It's not half over." 

I took Dickerson's arm. 

44 It is enough for men to say they have 
no religion," I volunteered, in explana- 
tion. 44 They are able, perhaps, to exist 
without it, but a woman ! It is a flower 
without perfume, a rose without color, ? 
day without the sun." 

•‘Hear! Hear!" cried Tucket, throw- 
ing up his hat. 44 She's dropping into 
poetry." 

He drew up beside me, Cecil walking 
sullenly in the rear. 

"We'll go into some little cafe and 
have a bite to eat," he said. 44 You 
always need a bite to eat after a Sunset 
Club dinner," and led us to the little 
cafe. 

"Cecil tells me you are interested in 
the wage slaves," he began, when we 
were seated. " So am I. It is a popular 
subject just now. I'm writing a book 
about it." 

Then over the deviled crabs he 
repeated whole pages of his book. He 
did it cleverly too. I wondered how he 


42 


The Color of His Soul 

managed to remember whole pages of a 
book, 

44 It is to be the story of the wicked- 
ness of New York life/' he informed ns, 

44 And Tucket is the man to write it,” 
broke in Cecil, 44 If anybody knows the 
true inwardness of New York life, it is 
Tucket.” 

44 He flatters me,” demurred Tucket. 

44 Now listen,” 

And he told a glib tale of two girls of 
Bohemia who sat in a restaurant, waiting 
for two friends with whom they were to 
dine, in the meanwhile exchanging 
confidences, 

“ "And you think Jack will stay with 
you always ?' said Maggie, 4 Ah ! I hope 
so. Be happy while you may, for to- 
morrow comes, and with it, tears/ 

44 4 What ! You talk of tears ? I 
thought you were the gayest of the 
gay r 

44 The other delicately mopped her 
face with her lace handkerchief. 

“ 'Gay ! Oh yes, and fairly happy, 
too, now, with Charlie; but there was a 
time, not so far back though it seems like 
centuries, that first one, you know. He 


43 


"The Color of His Soul 

was handsome as your Jack. How long 
did it last? I have forgotten. A few 
days. A few months of heaven, then 
some little quarrel that can never be 
patched up, or a look as if he had tired, 
which is worse than any quarreling, then 
— Oh, well, you wake up some fine morn- 
ing and it is all over ! What ! Tears ! 
Dry them quick. Here they come ! Ah ! 
boys, Fm glad to see you. We were get- 
ting mopy, Maggie and I, sitting here 
alone. What shall it be? A cocktail, a 
brandy soda, or a gin fizz Y ” 

Yes, he told it well. I could see the 
two girls sitting there, trying to be gay, 
crushing back their tears, their footsteps 
half over deadly precipices of the Fear 
of Being Forgotten, of the Going to Be. 

“ Good,” I applauded. “Tell me 
another.” 

He was pleased. 

“ Sometime when I am not busy I will 
bring up the whole manuscript and read 
it to you.” 

I faced Cecil appealingly. 

44 Don't turn so pale,” he pleaded. 

“ How long is it?” to Tucket. 

“ Oh, not very long,” he returned. 


44 


Tfie Color of His Soul 

44 No man's own story is ever long, but 
I'll be willing to wager that you'll not see 
her, coming with that manuscript, if she 
happens to see you first*" 

44 Don't believe him," I soothed* 

44 Bring it along* I'll listen to it* It 
may give me some pointers for my own*" 
" That settles it," he nodded* " My 
manuscript and I will stay right where 
we belong, at home*" 

The clock pointed to twelve* We 
got up to go* 

44 You will come with me to Marian's 
restaurant some night, won't you?" 
asked Tucket* 44 It is very gay* You 
will meet plenty of Bohemians down 
there and pleasant people* Say what 
night*" 

44 Any that pleases you* I shan't 
have so very much time just now* I'm 
studying the slums, or going to study 
them* The Wage Slaves, you know, 
Cecil's Wage Slaves*" 

At the foot of the steps he raised his 
hat, Dickerson also* 

"We are all of us Wage Slaves," said 
he, and they turned to go* 


45 


CHAPTER V* 

next day the slums were 
Id W 8 impossible* To begin with, 
1J l \ i it rained. The raindrops 
stood on the window pane, 

like tears. 

Unhappily, I am a sort of barometer. 
My spirits rise and fall with the mercury. 
The letter which lay at my plate did not 
tend to elevate them. On the contrary. 
It lay inside a rejected manuscript. 

“ I am sorry ,” it ran , 44 to be obliged 
to reject this; but it contains the same 
old fault of which I have so often spoken. 
A lack of plot — a grievous lack of con- 
struction. If you will come down to the 
office some afternoon, I should be glad. 

I want to talk to you about your work.” 

Sensitive as that plant which closes 
green leaves at the touch, the mere 
announcement in cold penmanship that 
my work was grievously lacking in any- 
thing robbed me of the power to write. 

I put aside my manuscripts and busied 
myself with other things. Mrs. Tront, 
my landlady, brought in my linen. I 

46 


TAe Color of His Soul 

mended that. Muriel, her daughter, 
came and sat with me awhile. I en- 
deavored to amuse her. She told me 
about the new boarders — they came and 
went in a kaleidoscopic manner wonder- 
ful to behold — a chorus girl belonging 
to a grand company and an ice man. 

Not a regular ice man, she explained, 
who carted around the ice, but the head 
of the firm. There was a big difference. 

44 Fd rather be an ice man,” said I, 
wearily 44 than write for the magazines.” 

44 1 wouldn't mind being one myself,” 
she assented , 44 if I could have the boss- 
ing of the job.” 

After lunch it still rained. The walks 
dripped. The papers of the small boy 
at the foot of the elevated were soaked 
through. With elaborate courtesy he 
folded one again and again and handed 
it to me as I passed him on my way down 
town. It moistened my glove. 

The elevated car exhumed humidity 
rising from wet clothing, from dripping 
umbrellas that left little zig-zag 
streams on the floor. The panes were as 
wet inside as out. 

I took a seat next to a dank um- 


47 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

brella and opened my paper* The scare 
lines danced before me* I read a column 
before I realized that I had understood 
not one single word of what I had read. 

Putting the paper down I looked at 
the wet windows and thought* Of my 
work, of my apparent success, of my 
pride in that success* And then of the 
blow of that morning* 

All hollowness ! All seeming ! There 
was something lacking, a vital some- 
thing* After all, I was a failure in the 
work I had set myself to do. 

Occasionally, starting out in the rain 
at Harlem, I had arrived at City Hall 
Park in comparative sunshine. I hoped 
it would be so that day, but it was not. 

It poured* The hyacinths in the oblong 
beds about the park were drenched, the 
newsboys were drenched, the tall build- 
ings lost their heights in a blur, the street 
cars ran in miniature lakes* To get at 
them it was necessary to wade* 

Raising my umbrella I hastened along 
with the crowd, and arrived at the edi- 
tor's office, where, giving my card to the 
boy at the door, I was finally admitted 
to the privacy of his sanctum. 

48 


The Color of His Soul 

The editor sat before a great table 
which was long and broad. He arose 
and advanced to meet me. I gave him 
a damp gloved hand and sat down, the 
table between ns. 

** Well/' I said, and waited. 

“ First," he demurred, “ give me the 
privilege of asking how yon are, and how 
yon have been ah ihese Jr.ys?" 

I put back a curling strand of hair that 
had come down in the rain. 

“ I am very well," I answered. 44 1 am 
always well. Perhaps I don't look it to- 
day in this rainy-day garb. I should 
have waited for the sunshine, so I could 
dress up in my pretty clothes to come 
down and see you." 

He regarded me for a space. 

44 There is never anything the matter 
with your looks," he decided. 

44 1 would rather," I sighed , 44 have some 
thing the matter with my looks than 
with my work." 

44 There is much that is beautiful in 
your work," he averred. 44 Much. Your 
style is exquisite/' 

44 It is no credit. It is inherited." 

44 It is no discredit. Also I have never 


49 


The Color of His Soul 

seen any piece of yours, any little squib 
that wasn't finished to perfection." 

“ That," I inserted, “ comes of the 
labor of copying and recopying." 

44 But the difficulty lies in the fact 
that you seldom write a story. Once in 
a blue moon you do hit on one; but I 
believe it is through no fault of your 
own. It is purely accidental and unin- 
tentional." 

~ Don't mind me," I plead. 44 Go on 
talking just the same as if I were out of 
the room and the subject altogether." 

44 There is a lack of surprise in your 
stuff," he went on. 44 The turn, the 
twist, the almost inexplicable thing that 
goes to make fiction. You should study 
conclusion." 

44 1 have studied conclusion." 

44 You should study the best writers of 
short stories." 

44 1 have studied Poe and De Mau- 
paussant till I'm black in the face," I 
mutinied. 

44 Then you should be able at least 
once in a while, to write some little thing 
that might pass muster for fiction." 

I tremulously stuck pins in the round 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

pincushion and took them out again, 
wondering who was going to pay my 
board while I recovered sufficiently 
from the shock of this discouragement to 
take up my writing again* 

“ Do all writers write fiction?” I 
argued. 44 Aren't many of them, and 
celebrated ones, totally lacking in plot as 
lam? Take Henry James, for instance. 
Take. . . ” 

“Now,” he interrupted, “ you are 
getting mad as mad as can be.” 

44 No,” I remonstrated. 44 I am not.” 

“Yes, you are. I can tell it by your 
eye. Don't you know I am interested 
in you ? Don't you know I have fol- 
lowed your career and done what I could 
to help you ? Can't you understand that 
what I am telling you is for your good?” 

“ Like the medicine they pour down 
our infant throats while they hold our 
noses,” I assented, grimly, “everything 
bitter and bad to the taste is for our 
good.” 

“ Nonsense ! Haven't I mixed the 
sweet with the bitter?” 

“ Not enough.” 

“ Haven't I told you over and over 

51 


The Color of His Soul 

again that your literary style was per- 
fect ? Often, to tell the truth, I have 
accepted your work on its literary merit 
entirely* But that was when you needed 
the money. Now that you are getting 
along better I tell you candidly that I 
will not accept anything short of a 
story. I am decided upon that.” 

“ You fill the cup of my bitterness 
full,” said I, surveying him out of the 
narrowness of half closed eyes, “ telling 
me how you helped me when I needed 
money.” 

“ It was true.” 

44 You might have spared me so much 
truth on a day that rained.” 

He bit his lip and was silent. 

After a long time: 

44 All that begs the question,” he 
began. “ You know I want you to 
succeed.” 

44 1 am succeeding fairly well. I make 
my living at my work and more. That 
in itself is extraordinary. I have been 
told so. One man said to me the other 
night , 4 If you are able to earn your salt 
by your literary efforts, I take off my 
hat to you/ ” 


52 


"The Color of His Soul 

44 But you lack so little of being 
great/' 

44 Whatever it is, that little thing, it is 
impossible to me. I don't even under- 
stand what it is. Surprise, conclusion, 
the turn, the twist, the inexplicable 
thing that goes to make fiction. I can't 
reach it, no matter how hard I try. 
Besides, each has his own manner of 
writing. As for me, I write of life as I 
see it. My stories come to me. They 
develop before my eyes. If they con- 
tain occasionally the surprises necessary 
all well and good. If they contain more 
generally merely pen pictures of real 
people, ordinary, simple, humdrum, that 
is not so much my fault as the fault of the 
people. I do not paint things as I should 
see them, but as I see them in reality; 
and the pictures have been acceptable to 
many. There is, to a certain extent, a 
demand for them or they would not be 
bought. Why not let me go on in my 
own way then ? Why discourage me ? 
We each have our own niche: Let me 
fill mine as best I may and try at least to 
find contentment." 

He leaned back in his chair and looked 


S3 


The Color of His Soul 


at me. 

“ I am even beginning to be a little 
contented with filling it” I continued. 

“ There is some pleasure in being made 
much of in ever so small a way. They 
toast me once in a while. They give me 
tastes of homage that are sweet; while 
yon, with the chill breath of discourage- 
ment, take away all power to work. I 
shall not write now for weeks. How can 
I ? Knowing myself to be a failure ? 
They exalt me. Yon hnmble me to the 
dnst.” 

He hnng his head. 

44 I'm a brnte, I know,” he admitted, 

44 bn t none of them begin to think half as 
mnch of yon as I do.” 

I fell to tracing qnick patterns on his 
blotter with his paper knife, langhing a 
langh that was half tears. 

Presently I looked np at the great 
window, fnll of raindrops as my own had 
been at home. 

“ I mnst go ont in it again,” I com- 
plained. 

44 And when shall I see yon?” he 
asked. 

44 Not nntil I have written a story 

54 


( The Color of His Soul 

which shall contain this elusive thing 
you say I lack/' 

His arms dropped inertly down* He 
dropped his chin upon his breast with a 
deep drawn sigh* 

44 I'm looking my last on her/' he 
muttered, and his head bobbed slowly up 
and down for a moment, like that of a 
Chinese Mandarin done in bisque* 

I began to laugh, sitting there opposite 
him, and then I began to cry* I sobbed 
spasmodically* 

He rose* He sat down again* 

44 Don't," he begged* 44 This is an 
almost public office* Suppose someone 
should come suddenly in* What do you 
suppose they would think? That I had 
been beating you ? Come* Hush ! 
There ! There ! Dry your tears* 

Take what I say kindly* Think over 
it and write stories if you can and if it's 
true that you can't, keep on with your 
sketches. I'll stand by you through 
thick and thin. I'll be your friend." 

I looked at him through my fingers* I 
brushed the tears hastily away with their 
tips and got up. 

* 4 I will," I promised him, and went 

55 


The Color of His Soul 

out of the office, down the stairs and 
into the wet of the street, back to the 
elevated, sitting dully through the sick- 
ening dampness of it until I reached 
Harlem and the drenched newsboy at 
the foot of the steps with his row of 
papers dripping raindrops, like a 
shingled roof. 

From there I half ran on home and up 
to my room, where, tearing off my satu- 
rated clothing and throwing on some- 
thing loose and warm, I crept under the 
covers of my couch, buried my head in 
the pillows and sobbed. 

It seemed to me just then that all I 
had in life was my work. And in that I 
had failed. What if this were the begin- 
ning of the end ? What if I should get 
like Cecil's mother, who had five years 
ago written for all the papers and made 
money and succeeded past her own 
expectations, and those of her friends, 
and who now spent her life in the kitchen 
waiting for Cecil, who took his time in 
coming, washing dishes she hated, scrub- 
bing sometimes ! 

I clinched my nails in my palms. 

It could not happen. Hers had been 
56 


The Color of His Soul 

assignments* She was told to go 
write up things and she did it* Mine 
was creative work ! 

But creative work in which something 
was lacking* 

I stretched myself out and stared at 
the ceiling* 

What if, by and by, I should get to be 
one of those wage slaves of Cecil's , delv- 
ing in the slums ! 

I sat up and looked at the wet windows 
thinking how I wished I were outside 
under the ground somewhere, buried 
deep, the cool earth crushing with its 
grateful weight all memories of struggles 
and trials and hopes and fears* Think- 
ing how some great man had said to me 
that life after all was only a process of 
drugging, each in his own way, some 
with drink, some with opium and others 
with love* And how true it was* 
Thinking how bitter it was that all three 
had been put somehow or other out of 
my reach* Thinking how the ancients 
had approved of suicide, and wondering 
why, since I had proved a failure, in the 
one thing left to me, I could not find the 
courage to go to sleep and never wake 


c The Color of His Soul 

again this side of eternity* I sobbed 
again, hushed and listened* 

It was Mr* Tront, Mrs* Tront's hus- 
band, who worked ah night and slept all 
day. He wished to sleep* My sobbing 
had disturbed him, the sound of it com- 
ing down into the room below* 

I lay very still, comparing my life with 
his. 

I had no right to sob, nor to complain. 


58 


CHAPTER VI. 



I T first I had thought that, 
like most husbands of 
women who take a few 
parlor boarders for the 


pleasure of their company, he was either 
non-existent or indefinitely absent on a 
long vacation; but later I had discovered 
that he was neither of the two. 

He was the engineer of a night train. 

It seemed to me that he missed the joy 
of life, working all night and sleeping all 
day. It was as if he were a plant set out 
of reach of the sunshine, 

I lay still, picturing him, his hand on 
the throttle, steering his fiery-eyed 
engine safe into the darkness, alert and 
watchful of danger for the lives in his 
charge while all the world slept. 

Then he slept through the sunlight and 
the April showers and the blossoming of 
the lilacs in the square back yard 
beneath his window, and the blooming of 
the sweet peas, the marguerites and the 
daffy down dillies. 

He missed it all. 


59 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

Nobody seemed to care much either 
what he missed, or whether he slept or 
waked* Nobody was the quieter* Not 
a voice was hushed nor a footstep soft- 
ened that he might sleep* The hand 
organs in the street dinned dismal music, 
the newsboys yelled, the hucksters 
screamed, the whistles blew and the 
elevated trains rolled grumblingly, 
thunderingly,three blocks from his door* 
On the contrary* The mere fact that 
he must sleep raised a sort of insurrec- 
tion in his own household. It interfered 
with plans. It conduced an order of 
things bordering upon a strike* 

Now that I remembered, his wife, com- 
ing into my room, had stood with her 
back to the door and talked about it by 
the hour, talked and talked and talked, 
taking up the time. 

44 It is fifteen years,” she said, “ since 
he has had this position on the railroad 
and slept through the day. You would 
think it was he who ought to be pitied — 
most people think that — but it is not he, 
it is Muriel and I* It is we who have had 
to bear the brunt* Can you imagine 
keeping quiet all day long for somebody 
60 


The Color of His Soul 

else to sleep ? (but they didn't keep 
quiet !) Can you think how wearing that 
would be? I couldn't stand it in the little 
flat with the shutters shut and the blinds 
drawn down, I had to get out and live 
among people. So I took this house, 

I had to have some distraction. It was 
killing me." 

Involuntarily I had raised my eye- 
brows, 

-- 1 know/' she had hastened to con- 
tinue, reading my thought. ** It doesn't 
look much like distraction,taking board- 
ers, It looks more like work. But it is 
better than watching him sleep, sitting in 
a half dark room from morningtill night, 
quiet as a mouse, tiptoeing about as if 
someone were dead, till six o'clock of an 
evening, till ten at night." 

I could imagine her life. It had 
hardly been an enviable one. It takes a 
sunny nature to overlook life's little 
ironies such as these, and optimism 
sufficient to nourish the belief that they 
will eventually wash out in the soap 
suds of Eternity's laundry, or they get 
on the nerves. 

She had waited for me to say some- 

61 


TAe Color of His Soul 

thing, but I had leaned my elbows on the 
table and looked at her silently* I was 
waiting to begin my work. 

** There is a big, handsome cousin of 
mine who wanted to marry me,” she had 
sighed by and by , 44 but girls are silly 
creatures. I thought I knew what was 
what. I would marry this other.” 

44 Sometimes,” she had added, after a 
moment's pause, 44 1 wish I had taken 
that big, fine cousin and really lived.” 

Fixing my eyes on her I had endeav- 
ored to mesmerize her into going away. 
Apparently the telepathic conditions 
were unfavorable. She had remained 
motionless. 

44 1 worry about it and worry about 
it,” she had complained, toying with her 
apron string , 44 but what's the use? 
Maybe it is just as well that he sleeps all 
day. We get along better, perhaps, not 
seeing each other.” 

Then she had taken herself off, and I 
had sat idle a while longer, pondering 
upon this solution of the marriage ques- 
tion. 

It was not a bad solution, as she had 
said, the not seeing each other. 

62 


The Color of His Soul 

Always my sympathies had gone out 
to those who care for us during the night* 
To the conductors, the brakemen, the 
engineers of the 44 L's.” To the motor- 
men on the surface cars, the switchmen 
on the tracks, the cabmen who stand 
sleepily waiting to bring us home, the 
waiters at the all-night restaurants* To 
the rank and file of night owls who 
rarely see daylight and never half enjoy 
it* But this was the first to come within 
range of my immediate vision* 

As a rule the scales of life balance 
fairly evenly. For the things we miss we 
gain something* For the things we gain 
we lose something. 

I wrenched my thoughts from my own 
discouragement, reckoning up his losses 
and his gains. 

Through the steady sacrifice of those 
fifteen years he had lost apparently not 
only the respect but the affection of his 
wife and daughter* 

Once I had found the girl nodding in 
the parlor at half-past nine. 

44 Why don't you go to bed ?" I had 
asked her* 

With a shrug of her shoulder toward 

63 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

the door she had answered: 

“ I have to sit op and wake Papa in 
time for his train*” 

And the mother had chimed in: 

“ It is fifteen years now, that we've 
been doing the same thing* Sitting op 
and waking him for his train* We can't 
go to the theatre* We can't go oot for a 
walk* We can't go anywhere* We are 
chained*” 

“ What aboot his chain?” I was opon 
the point of qoestioning, on second 
thooghts concloding it was safer not; for 
I had seen him methodically issoe from 
his room, walk down stairs to see that 
the kitchen doors were locked, come op 
again, torn oot the light in the parlor, 
torn down the lights in the hall, and go 
to his cheerless midnight work withoot a 
parting kiss or a 4 God Bless yoo.' ” 

His chain was a trifle longer than 
theirs* And that was all* 

Bot perhaps to balance this loss of 
affection and esteem he had gained the 
respect of his employers* That most 
have been the case* Otherwise he 
woold hardly have retained his position 
for a period of fifteen years* 

64 


T/ie Color of His Soul 

The respect of his employers weighed 
too little. The scales hung unevenly. 

For the better balancing, drawing 
upon my imagination I made pictures. 

I fell to fancying the memory of some 
young faced old sweetheart — those 
memory faces never grow old — there 
beside him through the long night hours, 
her head on his shoulder, her slender 
twining fingers adding strength to his 
right arm, whirling, the two of them, 
into the black of the night, facing the 
stars. 

Why not ? Since the wife retained the 
memory of her big, strong cousin whom 
she wished she had married ? 

With the help of this picture the scales 
hung more evenly. 

It was a shadow thing. But life is 
made up of shadow things, shadow 
memories of the past and hopes for the 
future that seldom take to themselves 
shapes other than those of phantoms, 
elusive, will-o'-the-wisp like, impalpable. 

Tired of the fresco of the ceiling I 
thrust my feet into Japanese slippers and 
going to the window knelt, looking out. 

Directly below was our back yard, at 
65 


The Color of His Soul 

the farther end of which were roses. On 
either side were other back yards of the 
same shape and pattern, better tended, 
being private back yards, the roses held 
primly against the wall by strings. 
Farther on yet rose the rear of a charch, 
covered with vines, the tinkle of whose 
chimes told the half hoars and the 
qaarters. 

It no longer rained. The roses lifted 
red heads wet as if with dewi The vines 
hang dripping. The black cats moved 
sinaoasly ap and down, aboat and 
across the fences in between the sqaare 
back yards as was their wont. Two of 
the cats I knew personally. They were 
my friends. They belonged to the place 
which began to seem like home since I 
thoaght of leaving it and going to the 
slams. 

Oatside the scratiny of Cecils keen 
eye I coaid own my aversion to going to 
the slams. The mere thoaght revolted 
me. I am not of the staff of which 
martyrs are made. I knew if I went at 
all I mast force myself to it. 

Why go there in search of wage slaves, 
when wage slaves lay at my threshold. 

66 


The Color of His Soul 

What of this man who slept in a 
darkened room, missing the rain-washed 
roses, the dripping vines, the scurrying 
clouds and the joy of life? 

The clouds parted, letting a wave of 
sunlight sweep over the walls of brown 
stone down upon a big leaved tree in the 
garden next to ours. They parted 
further and the waves swept into our 
garden and upon the cats. Suddenly tired 
of walking up and down these sat with 
their faces to this sunlight, blinking 
sleepily. 

And he slept, missing the content of 
the cats, the raindrops, the roses, the 
glint of the sunlight, the glad daytime, 
the gem-like brilliancy of the gay old 
green world, basking in the glorious glare 
of day. 

44 If you are hunting for misery/' I 
said, aloud, leaning on the sill to catch 
the odor of the roses, 44 you can find it on 
your door step. But why look for 
misery ? Why not go in search of a little 
happiness instead?" 


67 



CHAPTER VTL 

|N the following evening Cecil 
calling with a girl friend 
1 | begged me to go with them 

® to a noted Bohemian res- 
taurant as chaperone. 

I hesitated. 

44 Does your mother know?” I asked. 

44 We have explained it to her like 
this,” they said. “ She knows you want 
to see this place; it's worth seeing. There 
are a lot of freaks down there, writers 
and that — so we told her you insisted 
upon our taking you.” 

44 Oh,” I ejaculated, interrupting. 

" You told her that!” 

“ Yes. What difference does it make? 
Then we told Estelle's father — he hardly 
allows her to put her foot outside the 
door after dark, you know, he's so fiend- 
ishly strict — that you would go, and 
you wouldn't hear to going without 
Estelle.” 

Falling up against the wall, I stared at 
them speechless. Though I appeared to 
be getting rather the worst of it, I could 

68 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

help admiring the ingenious facility with 
which they fabricated* 

44 Go get on your hat/' they laughed, 

“ and quit your foolishness." 

Quite helpless, carried away by this 
tide of youthful fervor, I got on my hat. 
We boarded a neighboring steam car, 
changed from it to an electric, took still 
another electric, and finally landed at the 
Bohemian resort, where, descending three 
worn steps, we crossed an abbreviated 
portico, opened a door and encountered 
a cloud of tobacco smoke of a thickness 
to be cut with a knife. 

Through this smoke gleamed excited 
faces and some brilliant eyes, mingled 
with others that were not so brilliant as 
they might have been. 

Cecil led the way through the 
room into which had drifted a song or 
two from another to the right; into a 
third at the door of which Tucket, rush- 
ing up to me, grasped me by the hand. 

“ I've been dying to see you," he 
cried. 

“ It looks like it," said I. “ Three 
times you have asked me to come down 
here with you, and three times you have 

69 


The Color of His Soul 

forgotten. Fancy my emotions, sitting 
alone in a dreary parlor, waiting for 
yon/' 

“ Carissima," he murmured, ** some 
fellows took me off and gave unto me the 
highball, and I did drink. That's the 
reason. Believe me. That is the only 
reason. I will atone. From this 
moment I devote my life to you. ..." 

44 Oh, well ! If you call it atonement !" 

44 Forget the word. Call it any thing 
you like. Call it. . . Say, will you 
come down here with me next Saturday 
night?" 

I glanced over the crowd. 

44 Once," I concluded , 44 will be quite 
enough of this to hold me for a while." 

44 Cruel !" he murmured — he is good at 
murmuring — and took me to a chair. 

Then I lost Cecil and his companion. 
Miss Eaton. 

Why should young people have a 
chaperone ? Why shouldn't they be 
trusted ? 

In chaperoning I always trust them. 

Somebody made a salad and passed it 
around. Then closing the doors the fun 
began. 


70 


The Color of His Soul 

They called it fun* I called it elocu- 
tion. 

A young woman in pmk with gestures 
wonderful to behold recited something 
about a Japanese fan. She had recited 
this thing about the Japanese fan with 
such frequency that the gestures had 
grown to be second nature. 

She raised her glass to her lips in a 
manner exactly the same. 

A man with an excellent profile fol- 
lowed with Kipling's 44 Envoi." 

An exquisitely gowned woman fol- 
lowed him with another recitation. 

And lo ! Before the applause had had 
half time to die away, she recited again ! 

There were various factions appar- 
ently. We retired to an adjacent room, 
where, under a different leader there was 
singing. 

A famous soprano sang, “ Cornin' 
thro' the Rye." A tenor commenced to 
mock her, whereupon, what with her 
faction and his faction, the excitement 
rose to heights, such exceeding heights 
that I deemed it best to look out for the 
personal safety of those two whom I had 
in charge. 


71 


"The Color of His Sout 

I found them with difficulty, but I 
found them* 

“ Come on let's go home/' I begged* 

“ I'm afraid!" 

44 Silly," said Cecil* u There is noth- 
ing to be afraid of* It's a common thing 
here, this. They are not fights* They 
are discussions." 

Looking back through the smoke it 
seemed to me I could see only a whirl of 
arms and legs mingled in a way which 
struck terror to my soul* 

44 I don't like these discussions," I 
groaned. “ Come on* Let's go home." 

He took out his watch* 

“ Well, we will," he assented. 49 It is 
time. Estelle's father will be furious, 
it's so late." 

Going out into the night we climbed 
to the elevated* 

“ You needn't worry about me," I 
told them, taking the seat opposite. 

“ Put me off at 125th and I will go home 
alone on the crosstown car. I'm not 
afraid." 

Cecil took time to look up at me, shrug 
his shoulders and laugh. 

“ That's not the question," he 


72 


The Color of His Soul 

informed me. “ From the way you 
flirted with those fellows to-night one 
would be led to suppose that Estelle was 
chaperoning you; but the fact of the 
matter is that you are chaperoning 
Estelle. You must, therefore, see her 
home. Her father would take off the roof 
if he didn't actually gaze upon your 
countenance. He wouldn't believe you 
had gone with us. He wouldn't ..." 

44 What absolute confidence he must 
have in Estelle," I remarked casually, 
adding: 44 How far is it?" 

“ Don't let that worry you/' they 
retorted, and forgot me entirely. 

I am not a stern and inflexible 
chaperone. On the contrary. But upon 
deep reflection, I feel that there were 
some things at which I should have 
drawn the line that night. 

Estelle had on a tight slipper, for 
instance. 

She leant forward untying it, where- 
upon Cecil, leaning forward also, took 
the slipper entirely off and put it in his 
pocket. 

I resolutely closed my eyes; for if I 
had observed this thing I was convinced 


73 


The Color of His Soul 

that it would have been my religious 
duty to remonstrate, and if my remon- 
strance had had no effect, to report the 
same to that fiendishly strict father of 
Estelle's, who hardly dared let her put 
her foot out of the house after the night 
had fallen. 

I trembled to speculate upon his feel- 
ings, on discovering that that foot had 
been slipperless in a public car on the 
elevated train at one o'clock in the 
morning. 

However, I believe it passed mostly 
unobserved. The passengers, like myself, 
nodded, waked and nodded again. The 
conductor called: 

44 Eightyfurstnxt l” 

Then: 

44 Ninetiefurstnxt !'' 

Then: 

44 Nunderedndwendyfivfth !” 

Leaving the elevated there, we took 
an electric which cut a shining pathway 
straight into the night. Alighting from 
this car after what seemed endless hours 
we commenced to walk. 

That is to say, Cecil walked and I 
walked, but Estelle limped. She was 


74 


The Color of His Soul 

lame, very lame. She grew more and 
more lame until it was distressing to 
behold the way in which she crept along. 

By and by Cecil, stooping from his 
great height, said to her softly 2 

“ Let me carry you l” 

And that was what he did ! 

She was very small. He, as I said 
before, was very tall. It was accordingly 
as if he were carrying a child. 

It was hardly proper, I own, but it 
was rather pretty to see them wavering 
m the dusk, her arms about his neck, her 
small feet dangling, both laughing 
hilariously, uproariously, outrageously, 
in fact. 

It was a great joke, truly, a thing to 
laugh at, though I must confess, it did 
not appeal to me. I failed to appreciate 
it as I should have done, kept from my 
well-earned rest, trudging along sleepily 
in the rear, not carried at all — just walk- 
ing and walking ! 

We passed a long stone-walled church 
yard. We entered a large and beautiful 
wooded lawn giving upon the Hudson. 
We approached a house. 

It was a big, brown house, hushed and 
75 


Color of His Soul 

quiet and lightless as all self respecting 
houses should be at such an hour of the 
early morning* 

We knocked at the door. 

It was opened by Estelle's younger 
sister. 

44 But you'll catch it," she stormed, 
shaking a pink fist into the face of the 
girl. 

Estelle, snatching me by the hand, 
swept me into the hall with a sudden 
movement that came near to upsetting 
my equilibrium. 

44 Be quiet," she commanded. 44 I've 
got a chaperone. Here she is. Look at 
her!" 

** Yes," I assented quickly. “ I'm her 
chaperone. I've been with her all even- 
ing. 1 have. Tell your father so. And 
I'm not going to say a word about the 
slipper. ... or the ..." 

Cecil, grasping me by the shoulder, put 
me bodily out. 

“ Goodbye, Estelle," he called back to 
her over his shoulder. Then to me: 

44 What do you mean? Are you crazy? 
You make me tired, you !" 

“ Tired !” I wailed. I'm so tired I 

76 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

don't know what to do* I'm so tired I'm 
ready to drop* I'm dead tired/' and 
my voice trembled, for I was half ready 
to cry* 

He bent tenderly over me, as he had 
bent over Estelle* 

44 Shall I carry yon?" he asked* 

I walked steadfastly off into the dark 
ahead of him* 

44 Not on your life," I replied* 44 I've 
never played second violin yet, and at 
this stage of the game it is too late to 
begin*" 


77 


CHAPTER VIII* 

HAT station do you get off at 
for Rivington Street ?” I 
asked of the conductor, on 
the day after* 

"At Houston," he answered, clanking 
the gates and yelling first into one door 
and then into the opposite one: 

44 Nunderedensixdeenxt l” 

I read my paper too long* When I 
looked tip we had passed the station* 
Alighting, I walked back several blocks 
tinder the elevated amid a whir of trams 
and big wheeled wagons, a crush of rtish- 
ing electrics and a wild-eyed crowd of 
newsboys, selling strange papers with 
grotesque headlines in a language re- 
sembling Greek, but which I discovered 
later on was Yiddish* 

The Third Avenue here cuts two 
worlds in half. On the west the thrift, 
enterprise and cleanliness of the new 
world, on the left the shiftless poverty of 
the old. 

Poverty of the baldest, of bare headed 
women, of ragged children, munching 

78 



The Color of His Soul 

aged crusts,of imswept doorsteps, of push 
carts, propelled by a jumble of nation- 
alities, of wares hawked in every lan- 
guage under the sun, seemingly, with the 
exception of English, of the riff raff of 
the continent, in other words, dumped 
in a screaming heap into the rank and 
seething cauldron of the slums. 

Mrs. Mallon had given me the address 
of the College Settlement. 

44 They are people,” she explained, 

“ who live down there in order to dissem- 
inate refinement.” 

“ You mean that by their mere 
presence refinement is scattered pro- 
miscuously about, like manna, as it 
were?” 

“ Umph hum.” 

'*Wait till I take a room in the slums,” 
said I, 4 * and the job will be finished. 
There'll be no more slums. It will be a 
choice collection of aristocrats and the 
four hundred will shortly commence to 
build their palaces there.” 

At which she had laughed. She often 
laughed at my jokes, she explained 
upon one occasion, to keep from 
crying. 


79 


TAe Color of His Soul 

Finding the place, I was shown into 
the office of a tall, slim man, with a 
smooth face and hands that were deli- 
cately thin. 

“ I want to see the slums,” I told him. 
“ I don't mean from the outside, but the 
true inwardness, the sweat shops, the 
places where people work all day long in 
the dark, and that sort of thing.” 

He raised his eyebrows. 

** If they heard you call it slums,” he 
said , 44 they would be insulted. You 
mustn't call it slums.” 

44 1 won't,” I promised. “ But can 
you help me?” 

He shook his head. 

44 1 don't see how,” he ruminated. 

“ You might go to the woman's settle- 
ment, however. They may give you 
some assistance. They will if they can. 
Will you look at our place before you 
go?” and he showed me through room 
after room, beautiful apartments fur- 
nished in the style of the Japanese, of the 
Chinese, of the Turk, each a marvel of 
taste, finally ushering me out upon an 
iron veranda high up, from which we had 
a view of the slums, the tenements jagged 

8o 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

with rusty fire escapes, disreputable with 
forlorn windows stuffed with pillows and 
newspapers and breeze-blown rags, redo- 
lent of misery* 

“ In a dozen blocks about here,” he 
informed me with a comprehensive 
sweep of his thin hand , 44 there are 
25,000 Jews* We call it the land of the 
push cart*” 

I leaned further forward and looked 
toward the river, where the delicate grey 
of the mammoth bridge swung soft 
against the sky, a beautiful shadow 
bridge going somewhere over and far 
away from the land of the push cart — 
the land of unhappiness* 

I looked below me at the surging 
swarm of dense humanity thronging the 
streets like flies, and sighed* 

It would take all the courage of which 
I was mistress to live among them* 

The slim man piloted me down again, 
and I went to the woman's settlement* 

A dozen children played on the stoop* 
In lieu of marbles they played with worn 
and rusty buttons* 

44 Haven't you any marbles?” I asked 
44 No,” they replied simultaneously. 

8i 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

I opened my pocketbook and produc- 
ing a dime, gave it to the smallest. 

“ Go get you a few, anyway/' I 
said, and the stoop was promptly 
vacated, the eleven following gaily in the 
footsteps of the inflated owner of the 
dime, marbleward. 

A young woman with large blue eyes, 
calm and serene as an early May morn- 
ing, let me in, closed the door and pre- 
ceded me to a waiting room, neat waxed- 
floored and adorned with yellow flowers 
in a vase on one corner of the mantel- 
piece. 

She helped me in the same manner in 
which the slim man had helped me. 

Taking an opposite seat, she listened 
politely enough to my request to be 
shown the slums, and was quiet there- 
after for a space, apparently thinking it 
over. 

I wondered why she had taken the 
time to appear to think it over, since her 
reply was the stereotyped reply of the 
tall, slim man of the delicate hand. 

It would be impossible for her to help 
me, she said. These people were averse 
to being looked upon as paupers. They 

82 


The Color of His Soul 

had their pride* Did I expect to live a 
while in the slums? If I did, then I 
could go looking for rooms. Whether 
or not I found one to suit me, I was apt 
to find more than enough of the poverty. 

It was a good suggestion. I con- 
cluded to profit by it. 

Coming out with smiles and bows and 
expressions of profuse gratitude I dis- 
covered the same crowd of children 
ostentatiously playing marbles on the 
stoop, with the same old buttons, eye- 
ing my pocketbook furtively meanwhile. 

Laughing, I passed them, went a 
little way down the street and entered a 
tenement house, at the door of which 
stood frowseled women chatting volubly 
together, while their still more frowseled 
children, uncombed, unwashed, played 
at their feet. 

Above the knob was the sign of fur- 
nished rooms for rent. 

“ Can I see one?" I asked of nobody 
in particular, whereupon a girl child 
of six or thereabouts answered; 44 1 will 
show you. Come on up." 

I had forgotten that it was Monday, 
and washday. The odor of suppressed 
83 


The Color of His Soul 

steam reminded me* I followed the 
child tip and tip along narrow stairways 
clot ided by steam, throtigh which ap- 
peared dismal visions of tinkempt 
women bending over washtubs, lifting 
clothing out of boilers by means of 
broom sticks, whitened by months of this 
perverted tise, or the washing done, 
sprawled on all fotirs, scrubbing floors 
with the souse of the left-over suds* 

I stopped on a landing and looked at 
the clothes* They were pitiful as the 
people* Clothes that should by rights 
have been hung in the sunlight fanned 
by fresh breezes for the whitening of 
them, strung on blackened lines between 
the narrowness of a darkened air shaft 
guiltless of a breeze, guiltless of one 
single ray of the bleaching sun* 

The child threw open a door on the 
last flight of all* 

“ This,” she said, 44 is the room.” 

Unable to endure the sight of the 
interior, sunken floored, low ceilinged, 
reeking with uncleanliness, I walked to 
the window and looked out over the 
roofs. 

More soiled linen hung danglingly 

84 


The Color of His Soul 

between dingy air shafts. More tangled 
fire escapes laden with kitchen utensils, 
with bottles, with kegs and boxes and 
barrels and stray dogs and lazily sleep- 
ing cats curled on planks that were 
stretched across the apertures that 
should have been left free in case of fire, 
but weren't. 

Then roofs and roofs and roofs and 
little narrow streets bewildering with 
their twists and turns, all happily lead- 
ing to the phantom bridge that led over 
and away from it. 

My soul turned sick at the thought of 
living in that room with the view of 
those roofs. 

Silently, without explanation, I 
retraced my steps, followed by the won- 
dering child, to the street. 

Other tenements I entered, looking for 
a room. 

Always a child led me, showing me 
rooms where children bent over sewing, 
over tubs, over cook-stoves,— young-cld 
children taking up the too-early thread 
of life and weaving before their time; and 
leading me down again where babies 
rolled in gutters and scrambled away 
85 


The Color of His Soul 

from under the crushing wheels of carts. 

When at last I stood at home in my 
own room, I ached with fatigue, bodily 
and mental. 

It was a pleasant room. I had never 
before realized how pleasant. 

The maid had cleaned it while I was 
gone. The nap of the big rug rose velvety 
from much brushing, the waxed floor 
shone. She had polished the furniture, 
she had dusted the bric-a-brac and had 
placed on chiffonier and mantel crisp 
doilies fresh from the wash. 

It was almost like home. 

I went to the window and looked out. 

No network of fire escapes. No soiled 
linen, no pillows protruding from broken 
panes, no frowseled heads nodding in the 
dissemination of gossip on unclean door- 
steps. No slums. 

Only the soft sweet green of the little 
back gardens, the vines on the wall of 
the church, the tinkle of the chimes at 
the half hour and the quarter, the roses 
looking up at me, and the cats, two of 
which were my personal and individual 
friends, moving sedately about. 

Yes. It was like home. 


86 


CHAPTER IX* 


fcECIL let me in. He and his 
mother sat in the parlor, he 
smoking, she reading. 

44 Will yon take off your 
hat ?" she asked. 



44 No, thanks. It is light. 1 I may as 
well keep it on. Who's that in the 
kitchen?" 

u Papa," answered Cecil. “ He got 
home to-day. He's washing the dishes. 
What makes you look at me so hard 
now ? Is it my eyes again ?" 

44 No. It's the shape of your head. 

It is most peculiar, if you want to know. 
I understand enough of phrenology to 
realize that some bumps are entirely 
lacking there, — some necessary for the 
making up of a perfect character. You 
are right, Cecil. Young as you are, I 
believe if I saw your soul come walking 
down the street toward me, I should 
run away from it screaming." 

44 Why this sudden tirade?" he 
demanded. “ Is it because I am letting 
Papa wash the dishes there in the 
87 


The Color of His Soul 

kitchen?” 

44 That and the way you treat your 
mother. But then how can you expect 
natural and beautiful sentiments in a 
boy who prides himself upon not believ- 
ing in God ?” 

The rattling of the dishes broke the 
silence. 

44 He's the best two out of this three,” 
I said, listening. 

“ Who? Papa?” 

44 Yes. Papa.” 

44 Mother tells me,” he began by and 
by, 44 that you have been down to the 
slums. That you broke into those 
people's houses bodily and examined 
their contents.” 

44 1 should hardly call it 4 breaking 
in,' ” I demurred. 44 1 was looking for 
a room. I shall take a room there if I can 
find one that is fairly fit to live in, and I 
can bring myself to living in it.” 

He stretched his long limbs, crossing 
one over the other. 

44 You'll never do it,” he declared. 

44 The spirit is willing,” I sighed , 44 but 
the flesh is weak.” 

His mother looked up from her paper. 

88 


The Color of His Soul 

u After all/- she ruminated, “ you 
may talk about your wage slaves and 
your wage slaves; but there are plenty 
of women living in flats all over New 
York who work day in and day out; 
never from one year's end to the other 
getting one cent of pay. These are wives, 
let me tell you, cultivated women who 
must do the work of servants at the 
command of their lords and masters, the 
men. The work of servants ! Servants 
the world over get their livingand wages 
besides. These women get their living, 
what they can eat after cooking it them- 
selves — and it's mighty little I want to 
eat if I have to cook it — but as for wages ! 
They get nothing, absolutely nothing.’ 
From one year's end to the other; not a 
cent do they have in their pocketbooks 
to spend. No car fare. No nothing. 
Talk about wage slaves. They are slaves 
without the wage and I am one of 
them." 

So saying she lapsed into silence once 
more and read. 

Cecil threw back his head and 
laughed. 

“ She's a monomaniac on the sub- 

89 


TAe Color of His Soul 

ject," he vowed* 44 1 never saw any- 
thing like it. For five long years this is 
the song I have heard her sing. 

He had spoken in a low tone, but she 
heard. Like most deaf people she 
heard when it was not intended for her 
to hear, and when it was she didn't. 

44 Five years ago, yes, but before that" 
she reminded him. 44 Did you hear one 
word of complaint? Notone. I was 
doing the work then that was congenial 
to me. Work that I liked, writing, just 
as Dolly does now. Not only that, but 
making money hand over fist by it, tak- 
ing care of you, dressing you beautifully, 
sending you to school, giving you little 
trips in the summer, living in furnished 
rooms and going out for our meals. No 
sweeping, no dusting, no dishwashing..." 

44 Who is that in there now?" I 
enquired , 44 washing the dishes?" 

“ Mr. Mallon. And he ought to wash 
them. It was he who put me into the 
kitchen and took away my brain power. 
They don't go together. You can't 
make them go together. . . ♦ He has 
ruined my life. It is as little as he can 
do, once in a while, to wash the dishes." 


90 


t The Color of His Soul 

“ I was right/' I noddech “ He is the 
best two out of three." 

** What ?" she questioned sharply. 

44 In all probability," I replied, “ you 
are right. The brain requires to be 
quiet in order to do good work, to dwell 
on the one subject, to ponder. You 
can't be peeling potatoes one minute and 
writing an article on the psychological 
researches of the soul the next." 

“ Of course you can't," she snapped, 
and shut up again over her newspaper, 
like a clam. 

His work finished, Mr. Mallon came 
into the room, rubbing his hands 
together for the drying of them. 

I got up and took both hands in mine, 
looked into his ruddy face a minute, 
pushed a chair forward for him and 
rolled my own chair close to it, Cecil 
following each movement with a super- 
cilious half smile. 

44 You are evidently a great favorite 
with her," he remarked, flipping the ash 
from his cigar onto the floor, whereat 
Mrs. Mallon left her place by the lamp, 
went to the kitchen, brought back the 
dust pan and a little broom, knelt, 


91 


The Color of His Soul 

brushed up the ash, took back the dust 
pan and broom, returned and sat still 
as before, reading* 

44 1 like people who do their duty in 
life/' I said , 44 without so much blowing 
of trumpets and flare*” 

Mr* Mallon laughed a ripe, mellow, 
country laugh he had brought to the city 
with him ten years before* 

“ It is all very well,” he said , 44 this 
speech making for a side issue, but it is 
ruining Cecil for everyday life* I don't 
believe in socialism myself* It's the 
moneyed men who give me my position* 
If it wasn't for them I wouldn't have it. 
In that case I should possibly starve.” 

“ That's a nice way to talk,” broke in 
Cecil. 44 It looks well for people like us, 
poor as church mice, to uphold the mil- 
lionaires.” 

“ You have neither good manners nor 
over much common sense when it comes 
to such things,” asserted his father* 

44 What you ought to do is this. Drop 
all such questions and go to work. Get 
down to rock bottom and dig.” 

“ Why?” I asked. “ Aren't you 
working now, Cecil?” 


92 


TAe Color of His Soul 

He was silent* His father answered 
for him. 

“ One night,” he explained, “ he made 
a speech.” 

“ The same old speech?” 

“ With slight variations. He became 
unduly elated, inflated in other words, 
by the compliments of these people who 
are in need of just such youthful fire- 
brands for the stirring up of the laborers 
to discontent. . . ” 

44 And what then ?” 

“ Why. Then the next morning, his 
employers, daring to give him some order 
or other, Cecil flared up, swore at them 
and left.” 

A flush rose to the roots of the boy's 
hair. 

44 They treated me like a dog,” he 
muttered, 44 No man with a spark of 
independence in his soul would have 
stood it. Anybody would have sworn 
at them and left.” 

44 Not when his bread and butter 
depended upon it,” his father argued. 
“We owe a certain obedience — not ser- 
vility — obedience to those in command, 
we who are privates; and I don't know 
93 


77 le Color of His Soul 

but what, since each naturally falls into 
his place as commander or private, 
there's justice in it. If you are born to 
command, you command. If you are 
born to follow, you follow. We are 
a great army, and in an army all cannot 
be lieutenants and captains. Most must 
be privates. There is quite as much 
credit in doing your duty as a private if 
you will only believe it, in closing up the 
ranks over the dead bodies and keeping 
a solid phalanx presented full-breasted 
to the enemies' fire." 

44 The dead bodies," cried Cecil. 

44 That's just it. That's the point. There 
are too many dead bodies. There are 
too many ready and willing to trample 
them over, to take their places and fill in 
the ranks. It's not so much a fight to 
present a solid phalanx to the enemy as 
to keep enough bread and meat in your 
body to be able to stand up at all. In 
the army of life as in the army of the 
battle field fewer fall from the bullets of 
the enemy than from lack of provisions 
which should by rights be supplied to 
them while they fight." 

He rose to his full height. I had never 


94 


TJie Color of His Soul 

before observed the exceeding smallness 
of his head, as compared with his height* 

Involuntarily I brushed my hand 
across my eyes and looked again; for I 
had the fantastic impression for the 
moment that he was a snake uncoiling, 
capped by the little head, lighted by its 
strangely glittering, peculiarly pupiled 
eyes. 

“ I must be at a meeting by nine/' he 
announced, taking out his watch and 
putting it back without looking at it. 

44 If you are going home, I'll walk along 
that far with you." 

44 Don't hurry her off," objected his 
father. 

“ I'll go," I said. * Good-bye," to 
Mrs. Mallon , 44 and you," giving her 
husband my hand , 44 don't stay away so 
long the next time you go a traveling. 
We miss you." 

The boy and I walked silently the few 
blocks between our homes, he with his 
long stride, I keeping up with him. 

After a time he commenced to speak. 
With a delicate indirectness which pro- 
duced somehow the impression that he 
was practiced in the art, he hinted at his 
95 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

need of money, and later on, leading tip 
to it with infinite tact and precaution, 
he suggested a loan* 

By that time we were on the stoop. 

I opened my pocketbook, took out a 
bill and handed it to him* 

He folded it, put it into his vest pocket 
raised my hand to his lips, kissed it twice 
then walked down the steps, looking 
back up at me and smiling. 

When he was quite out of sight I 
brushed the kiss off the back of my hand 
with my pocket handkerchief. 


96 


CHAPTER X- 

1 was market day down in the 

fl D » s ^ ms * I edged my way 
|1 ll | along the sidewalks close to 
the push carts in the narrow 
path left between the jammed doorways 
and the curbs for those who walked* 

The merchandise of the world was 
brought conveniently to the door by 
those carts* Laces, linens, ginghams, 
calicoes, apples, strawberries, cherries 
and fish* The man who sold onions was 
there. Likewise the man who sold garlic. 

One held out a handful to me. 

44 Buy,” he implored, but I turned and 
fled* 

A swarthy youth took a handful of 
cherries from his cart and flung them 
into the lap of a dark haired girl who sat 
on a doorstep. She slowly munched 
them, laughing back at him, the ripe red 
of the cherries pressing the ripe red of her 
lips* 

An old man stood knee deep in laces* 
At first glance he had the appearance of 
a cripple, but beneath the laces were his 

97 



<The Color of His Soul 

legs* He stood in a cellar, the steps of 
which were his counters for the displaying 
of his goods* 

Up and down the streets the push carts 
stood packed to the hilt, the hawkers 
yelling into the deafened ears of the 
passers by* 

I left the crowd and turned into a 
quieter street* At the door of a house 
showing slight evidences of a desire to be 
clean there was a sign of rooms for rent* 
I entered and climbed to the top floor, 
where someone had said the janitress 
lived* Upon the opening of the door a 
round faced, cheery little woman of 
rotund proportions appeared. She 
showed me the room* It was a small 
room, full of flies, opening out on a din- 
ing room which was fuller yet of flies* 

In this room was a parrot. It squawked. 
Advancing, I stroked its head, a red top- 
knot rubbed invitingly against the bars 
for stroking. 

“ Look out !" exclaimed the woman* 

44 He'll bite !" and I jerked my finger 
away in the nick of time. 

“ He's a deceitful wretch," she 
explained. “ He'll beg you to rub his 

98 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

head, then bite yon every time* Will 
yon take the room?” 

“ FH come back and let yon know,” I 
told her, bnt I knew I could not take that 
little room, so foil of flies. 

Fnrther on, following the tinkle of a 
piano, I peeped into a half open door. 

“ Come in,” said a voice. 

I went in. 

The Girl was at the piano playing 
dance mnsic. 

Another girl, at the head of a seem- 
ingly endless row of children, com- 
menced to skip. The children, headed 
by a black haired child in a too-short 
dress and tight-cnrled ringlets, followed. 

The girl led them aronnd rows of 
benches, she circled a line, painted 
snake-like in the middle of the room, the 
children keeping as well as possible in 
the same line, all skipping, skipping, 
forty of them, for one — for I had counted 
them — with the girl. 

By and by, out of breath, she stopped 
skipping; the music also stopped; she 
divided the childreaoff into halves and 
took the younger of them with her across 
by the opposite windows of the long, 
LofC. 


99 


Tfte Color of His Soul 
narrow room* 

The girl at the piano arose. She came 
forward* 

44 Perhaps you would rather see the 
babies,” she suggested. 

“ What are these?” I asked* 

None of them, it seemed to me, were 
over six. 

“ Oh, well, if you prefer to see my 
class,” she smiled. “ Sit here.” 

She gave me a chair and a girl about 
frying size rolled two immense Japanese 
curtains down from the ceiling, dividing 
the room into two. Through the tiny 
slats of these curtains I beheld the vision 
of phantom babies beginning to play 
with sand in shallow boxes set out before 
them by the girl who had skipped. 

The six-year-olds took seats at 
benches built to suit their size, which 
was exceeding small. They ranged 
in a half square, at the open end of 
which was a promising toy wagon on 
four wheels. 

Before disclosing the contents of this 
wagon the Girl walked slowly about, 
looking at their hands. 

44 Yours are rather clean this morning. 


IOO 


The Color of His Soul 

Sally ," she said , 44 but Jane, I don't like 
yours. See your nails/' 

Jane, with drooped head, volunteered 
her explanation* 

44 What?" queried the Girl. 44 You 
haven't any soap ? Nor any nail 
brush ? I will give you soap, and take a 
tooth pick for your nails. That's very 
good. Go out and wash your hands, 
Jimmy. They are not clean at all." 

Amid unconcealed merriment Jimmy 
went out to wash his hands, and the Girl, 
taking a seat in the infantile chair pro- 
vided for her, motioned the first two 
children to the front. 

They were a boy and a girl. The girl 
got up with an air, placed her hands 
across her belt after the manner of some 
great grandmother, who had chanced, 
perhaps, to wear satins, and stood before 
her, the boy at her side. 

The Girl promptly took the hands off 
the belt and put into them a block which 
she had lifted out of the toy wagon. 

44 Build," she commanded. 

The child placed the block on the floor 
in front of her. 

The boy put one beside it. 


IOI 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

Guided by the directions of the Girl, 
they built the solid foundation of one 
end of the bridge* 

“ That'll do/' said she* 44 Come Sally 
and Johnny, you." 

Sally and Johnny came slowly around 
the benches. Sally's curls were long* 
There were six of them. The two in 
front were tied with little bows of ribbon, 
fascinatingly pink. On their way a curl 
got entangled with a button on Johnny's 
cuff. Either that, or he pulled it. 

44 Ouch !" she cried, at which the Girl 
raised a warning finger. 

44 Johnny," she said sternly , 44 you 
behave !" 

Then it was borne in upon me that the 
curl had not got entangled with the 
button on Johnny's cuff, but that he had 
pulled it. 

The second two built an added ten 
inches to the foundation of the bridge. 
They laid four blocks sidewise and 
placed across them four more for the 
smoothness of the floor. 

The building had been commenced by 
the children on the right. A child in an 
apron of the old blue worn by pinafored 


102 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

children on our grandmother's plates, sat 
last in the row on the left* 

She watched the privileged ones 
breathlessly, fearful lest the material 
give out before her time came around to 
lay on a block* 

The Girl was obliged to keep her eyes 
open* It was necessary not only to 
oversee the building of the bridge, but to 
scrutinize carefully the would-be builders* 
Johnny, for one, had grown obstrep- 
erous* He pulled corkscrew curls on 
either side of him until their possessors 
emitted ineffectually smothered screams 
of genuine anguish* 

44 Be quiet, Johnny/' admonished the 
Girl* 

And Johnny was quiet for a full half 
minute by the clock before he began pull- 
ing curls again* 

While the third couple was busy build- 
ing its portion of the foundation the rest 
were thrown into whirls of excitement by 
the advent of a youth of some five 
summers and a half, or maybe six* 

He walked straight to the Girl and, 
erect as any toy soldier made of tin, his 
hat in hand, conversed with her for a 


103 


* The Color of His Soul 

space. With his bright face topped by 
an abundant mop of hair of a cheerful 
red, he was like a little ray of stray sun- 
light leaked in. 

Curly heads and shaved alike 
bobbed toward them, listening. 

Impolitely, I essayed to listen too; but 
I was unable to understand, the conver- 
sation being carried on principally in the 
language of Babydom and Close Inti- 
macy, a language well-known evidently 
to the Girl, but incomprehensible to me. 

The building of the bridge went on. 

Five couples, one after, the other, had 
completed their fashioning of the foun- 
dation. Looking over into the wagon 
then, I saw to my consternation that the 
blocks had given out. I was not the 
only one concerned. Molly, of the old 
blue apron peeped sadly over too. 

The corners of her infant mouth 
drooped. 

What part were her hands to take in 
the building of that wonderful bridge? 

But the Girl was resourceful. There 
were smaller blocks left in the bottom of 
the wagon. She took out two. 

44 Come, Charlie and Sue,” she 


104 


TTze Color of His Soul 

motioned, “and build the steps*” 

Charlie and Sue built the steps with 
alacrity* Building steps was not like 
erecting a common foundation* It was 
the commencement of the finishing 
touch* They were accordingly undis- 
guisedly proud* 

However, they were not permitted to 
build all the steps* In that case there 
would hardly have been enough to go 
around* Only those at one side. 

Another couple built those on the 
other side next to Molly, of the wide 
eyes and the bated breath and the fear 
that there would be none left for her. 

The bridge seemed nearly built by now 
and a stately structure it was, led up to 
by steps; but there were surprises for 
us. There were triangular copings at 
juttings of the foundations, each placed 
there by the hand of a boy or a girl, and 
finally a toddling child in a pink dress 
over which hung a pinker apron, lacking 
two inches of reaching the hem, set on a 
splendid column at one comer, a fluted 
column with small fine squares at the 
bottom and at the top. 

She lifted her hand lightly off, and 


Vie Color of His Soul 

backing admiringly, said: 

“ There!” 

She walked with arrogant footsteps to 
her seat where she whispered to the boy 
by her, while another girl put another 
column at another end* 

The Girl looked suddenly up. 

44 Johnny,” she said — in my absorp- 
tion I had forgotten to observe Johnny — 
44 You can bring your chair now and sit 
right here by me.” 

Johnny rebelliously raised his chair 
and placed it next to her. He took his 
seat there, and rolling up his sleeve bit 
viciously at his bare arm, glaring over it 
at the little girl, the pulling of whose 
curls had been the means of his degra- 
dation. 

Other fluted columns had been added 
so that the bridge thus adorned at all 
four corners, to say nothing of the 
centers, on both sides presented an 
appearance bordering upon magnifi- 
cence. 

The Girl, turning her head, regarded 
it critically. 

44 Come here, Lucy,” she said, “ you 
and Tom.” 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

Lucy and Tom came* She handed 
them a curious block rounded over at 
the top* 

Standing irresolutely, first on one foot 
and then on the other, they stared at her 
appealingly. 

“ Move two columns up as far as the 
steps of the bridge,” she said , 44 and put 
that ornament over them*” 

They did so* Then they, too, backed 
away* 

Really, it was growing to be a most 
beautiful bridge* 

Two others ornamented in like man- 
ner the opposite entrance to the bridge, 
and it appeared to be finished* 

Molly's short legs dangled disconso- 
lately from her little chair. A tear came 
to her eye* Was the bridge finished 
then? Wasn't there a single block left 
for her to add to the beauty of it ? 

Not one that she could see; but she 
had not counted on the Magic Unex- 
pectedness of the Girl* In the curve of 
her palm she held a curious block, more 
beautiful in the quaintness of its carving 
than all the rest. 

44 Molly !” she called* 

107 




The Color of His Soul 

Molly, springing tip, ran quickly to 
her. 

She gave her the block. 

The Girl indicated the cornice at the 
entrance of the bridge. Upon the top — 
I had not noticed it — there was a square 
spot left for the placing of this block. 

Molly lifted high the block. Daintily 
she set it on, propped it for the space of a 
thrilling moment between the smallness 
of her two palms, then left it balanced, a 
tall, exquisite spiral thing, topping the 
entrance, completing the decoration, 
finishing the construction of this work of 
art so marvelously beautiful. 

Presto ! What skill ! What archi- 
tecture ! 

The splendor of it mirrored itself in the 
shine of twenty pairs of eyes. 

And the Girl sat there in her little 
chair, like a serene young sphinx, calm of 
eye and tranquil, her elbow on her knee, 
her finger on her lip, surveying her handi- 
work with quiet pleasure, simple, un- 
affected and sweet, as if she were not 
helping to build the invisible bridge from 
Squalor, Degradation and Poverty, 
across to Civilization. 


108 


CHAPTER XL 

'•■pST^NABLE to work on those 
I || 1 1 stories that were lacking, I 
' B haunted the slums* That 

morning they were one vast 
sweatshop. The sun blazed down on 
the writhing mass of it, scorching the 
bare heads of the women and the tangled 
curls of the children, swarming in droves. 

Featherbeds bulged from fire escapes, 
wagon wheels deafened, dogs gave sharp 
quick yelps and hushed again, leaving 
the atmosphere comparatively free for 
the screams of the children. 

Rows of half dressed tailors reaching 
back to the dimness of rear doors, bent 
over their stitching. In other shops 
similar rows of doubled-up girls worked 
listless sewing machines. But the 
interest for me centered in the thriving 
enterprise of the cellar doors. 

In one stood a girl with bushy hair. 
She was surrounded by small bags of 
wheat, of meal, of corn, which she sold 
by cupfuls. 

I stopped to talk to her. She shook 


T/te Color of His Soul 

her head and pressed a finger to a silent 
lip* Mine was an unknown language* 

Two old women, encompassed about 
by loaves of bread containing ominous 
seed of some unknown variety, likewise 
failed to understand; while near them a 
group of men gesticulated violently, dis- 
cussing, I thought, the advisability of a 
third Presidential term — in a foreign 
language, the only language known to 
them. 

A man stood complacently in a third 
cellar door. About him were pickles of 
every size, shape and variety. Small 
pickles and large pickles and pickles in 
jars; but mostly pickles in great wooden 
pails, swimming in vinegar of the palest, 
pickles which he also dipped out by cup- 
fuls for the pickle-loving crowd. 

44 May I ask what you pay for the 
precious privilege of this cellar door?” I 
asked, with winning suaveness. 

His mouth opened. His jaw dropped. 
“ Huh !” he ejaculated. 

I turned away. Evidently the case 
was hopeless. I might almost as well 
have been in a foreign country, so few 
of them understood. 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

The herring man was more loquacious. 
Added to which he spoke some dozen 
words in English. He sat hemmed in 
by herring barrels, unsavory and old. 
They were ranged some three feet from 
the bare wall of a house. 

44 1 pay ten dollar a month for these 
place/' he told me. 

It was enough. The place was three 
feet by seven, not more, an oblong bit of 
the sidewalk, cut off by the barrels. 

44 And what do you do at night ?" I 
asked. 44 Just leave them out for people 
to steal ?" 

No. He put boards over the barrels 
and fastened them down with padlocks. 
44 Then where do you sleep?" 

He jerked a horned thumb indefinitely 
toward the left. 

44 In a house," he said. 

I backed away in surprise. 

44 No," I exclaimed , 44 not in a house !" 

* 4 Yes," he reasserted , 44 in a house," 
but I was not so sure. A certain vacilla- 
tion of manner and expression somehow 
left me with the impression that he slept 
on the boards. 

“ Do you always make your ten 


The Color of His Soul 

dollars rent* Say?” 

He shrugged dusty shoulders. 

44 Nearly always.” 

44 And much more?” 

“ Not much more now. They no buy 
much herring these weather.” 

“ Why?” 

44 It's too war rum.” 

Suddenly lapsing into his vernacular, 
he began talking to me. There was no 
telling what he was saying; so I came 
rapidly away, walked along a street 
whose fire escapes bulged with unusual 
violence — a good sign of a choice quality 
of slums — and stopping before another 
cellar door, looked down upon the 
cheerful occupation of rag picking. 

The cellar was cut in two in the middle. 
On one side was a shoemaker's shop, on 
the other the rag pickers. A man with 
black beard and a face to match sorted 
black and white rags from a giant bag 
situated at his feet. The white rags he 
put in one pasteboard box, and the black 
rags he put into another. # Back of him, 
piled high and close together, were bags 
and bags above which dark haired, dark 
eyed men bent sorting the rags. 


The Color of His Soul 

u Where do you get all these rags?” I 
enquired, descending a step, and peeping 
fearfully in. 

Unless you ask, how are you ever to 
find out ? 

The man looked at me blankly; but 
the shoemaker left his work and 
advanced with a polite shuffle* 

44 He no speak English,” he informed 
me, and in a quality of English so 
fractured as to be long past the stage 
where there was the slightest possibility 
of mending, he gave me a history of the 
rags. 

The tailors made them presents of 
them. Our good American tailors, these 
were, of clean New York, Then they 
sorted the cloth and separated it from 
the cotton and sold both to the factories 
for coin. 

Nothing was wasted, he assured me. 

It was a great industry, this selling of 
rags, 

I thanked him and left the doorstep, 
watched a group of nearly naked chil- 
dren scrambling for strawberries 
dropped beneath the wheels of a straw- 
berry cart, then walked on and on and 


HKe Color of His Soul 

on down a street lined with pushcarts, 
ablaze with ragged awnings, red and 
white umbrellas and the faded pink of 
dresses worn by the fish wives, by the 
fruit venders, by the aged sellers of lace* 
In one cart fresh eggs slowly cooked in 
the broil of the stm, in another plums 
ripened, in still another I found the 
brilliant red of cherries shadowed sur- 
prisingly and artistically by refresh- 
ing twigs of green* 

Yards of cheap goods spread them- 
selves out flat on the pavement, glaring 
hosiery depended from banisters, women 
sat prone on the pavement along with 
the goods, their wares in large baskets 
before them, or on their laps, and in an 
awningless cart three rows of china dolls 
gazed helplessly up at the sun. 

Old women with brown wigs capping 
brown faces sold hairpins and needles 
and thread, girls at miniature soda foun- 
tains sold soda water, and boys dangled 
shoestrings, their upturned, imploring 
faces, like the faces of the dolls, baking 
in the sun. 

I passed a bronzed, bloused fisher- 
man. He pointed to a planked shad, 1 


< The Color of His Soul 

flattened out in the glare* 

“ It's goin' for nodding/' he declared, 
disgustedly* 

“ If it don't go pretty soon," said I, 

44 it will cook*" 

The sun was the only one doing any 
cooking apparently* Though it was high 
noon I saw no preparations going on for 
lunch* Presumably the fish wives ate 
raw fish, the fruit venders gobbled up 
their fruit and the lace makers munched 
on portions of their least delicate lace. 

My head ached with the heat of the 
mid-day; but they seemed to revel in it* 
Italians, many of them, all natives of a 
warmer clime, they were in their element 
The perspiration poured from their 
reddened countenances* Some wiped it 
away. Others let it stay, not noticing 
that it poured, smiling feebly through 
its enervating rain* 

Like the negroes of the south, they not 
only enjoyed the heat, but they gloried 
in uncleanliness, in shiftlessness, in 
poverty* 

What they needed was strong, sweet 
breaths of country air; for people are 
like animals* Give them enough elbow 


1 i s 


Color of His Soul 

room and they will be fairly decent* 
Huddled in pens they descend naturally 
to uncleanliness and to its boon com- 
panion, vice* 

Still, given the freedom of some fine 
country, I doubted if they would avail 
themselves of it* With them, as with 
the negroes of the South, companionship 
compensated for fresh air. It pleased 
them to see themselves reflected in the 
mirrors of each others eyes. No matter 
how small a part they played they must 
play it before the footlights on the other 
side of which sat an audience packed and 
jammed to the galleries of the gods. 

I stood by a cart buying some cherries* 
Those about me discussed me freely in 
their own language* Having lived in 
France awhile, I was accustomed to 
that; but two spoke in English. They 
were two young men, red cheeked and 
robust. 

“ That's my sweetheart," said one* 

“ She's not," retorted the other, 

44 she's mine." 

But before they had time to decide the 
matter between them I had got my 
cherries and had gone. 

116 


The Color of His Soul 

The gate of the elevated was con- 
veniently open* Embracing the oppor- 
tunity I walked in without paying my 
fare* 

44 Is this a Harlem train ?” I asked the 
conductor of the train which had just 
then stopped* 

44 All north-bound trains,” he 
remarked wearily, in a manner which 
carried with it some reproach , 44 are 
Harlem trains*” 

But how was I to know that ? 

Inside I sat by a fresh-cheeked girl 
with a big bunch of roses in her lap* 

She was next to the window* The 
wind blew in in whiffs* 

The odor of those roses thus wafted to 
me was sweet after the sweatshop of the 
slums. 


CHAPTER XII. 

R. TRONT opened the iron 
door of the basement for 
me. 

“ Well, how does this 
happen ?” I exclaimed. “ What are 
you doing awake in the daytime?” 

44 Once in a while,” he explained, “ I 
crawl out of my shell and take a look at 
the sun.” 

44 Is lunch over?” 

“ Not quite. Some of them are in 
there yet.” 

The ice man was there with his wife, a 
small young woman with auburn hair 
and a voice that tinkled. He went 
always by the name of “ice man” with 
us in spite of the fact that he was hand- 
some as a picture, and dressed invariably 
in the latest style. 

“’Bring me ice, Ida,” I said to the 
maid, “ and plenty of it. Fm dying of 
thirst. And what are these at my plate ? 
Rejected manuscripts, rejected manu- 
scripts, rej ected manuscripts !” Ah ! 
Pins, too ! I wish I could stick pins in 

ii8 



The Color of His Soul 

these editors who stick pins in manu- 
scripts.” 

44 Never mind,” they consoled , 44 it 
will all come out in the wash.” 

44 It's a fine day for the slums,” they 
added. 44 Why on earth did you pick 
such a day ? Why not wait till winter- 
time?” 

44 If you are looking for slaves,” said 
the ice man , 44 you don't have to go to 
the slums. Just gaze on me. If you 
knew what a time I have collecting my 
money after I earn it you wouldn't waste 
your pity on the slums. Of course, I 
know, everybody wants to be the ice 
man, but it ain't what it's cracked up to 
be, I can tell you that. Why, there's a 
doctor up here in Harlem who has been 
owing us an ice bill of fourteen dollars 
for four years. But the ice has all 
melted. What's the use paying for it ? 
The time I have had trying to collect 
that bill. I have sent boy after boy. 

No good. He isn't in. If they see his 
hat hanging in the hall, he isn't in. If 
they catch glimpses of his coat tails 
vanishing through the back door, no, 
he isn't in. " 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

44 After so long a time I put tip a 
scheme on him* Finding out his office 
hours — a doctor has to be in his office 
hours if he's in at all — I lined up our 
whole force, thirty-two office boys and 
thirty-two wagons, on his street. The 
first boy drove to his door, jumped out, 
ran up, rang the bell and presented his 
bill. He was put off with some excuse. 
The second boy followed suit. With 
the same result. Then another and still 
another, till the entire thirty-two had 
passed in solemn procession, single file, 
like wagons belonging to a side show, 
by his house, to the intense entertain- 
ment of some score of people at windows 
on the opposite side of the street. 

“ Do you suppose it fazed him ? Not 
at all. He probably went around 
explaining to his neighbors that the ice 
had been used, there was accordingly 
nothing to show for it, and that was why. 
Then they sympathized with him, and 
called me a brute. He owes us that ice 
bill to this day, and what's more, he'll 
keep on owing it if he lives till the Day of 
Judgment and the blowing of the horn.' 

44 We had another customer nearer 


120 


The Color of Hts Soul 

down town* She was a woman* She 
lived in a tenement house with several 
hundred others* Somehow she 
managed to run up considerable of a bill 
before we caught onto her* Then we 
tried to collect it, with the usual luck* 
We sent man after man* Each came 
back worsted* Finally we sent a fellow 
who appeared to have all the ear marks 
of a good collector. He stayed for hours* 
When he came back he was as white as a 
ghost, and the perspiration was running 
off his face in slabs* He dropped into 
the nearest chair and sat there half faint- 
ing* We threw water on him, he came 
to and told us about it* 
u The woman, he said, had met him at 
the door with a pleasant smile which 
went a long way toward assuring him at 
once of his money* She had said 4 Are 
you the ice man? * and upon receiving a 
reply to the effect that he was, she had 
said further, 4 Come right on in/ 

44 To all intents and purposes he felt 
the jingle of her money in his pocket. 
But things like that, he added, were 
things you couldn't always sometimes 
tell about* 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

44 However, he went in, and she, back 
of him, shut and double locked the door* 
He looked at her in some amazement; 
but coming to the conclusion that she 
had at one time or another had difficul- 
ties with brutal burglars, he waited till 
she got things fastened to suit her taste 
and followed her into the parlor* 

u There, to his infinite amazement, 
she also shut and locked that door* He 
began to tremble, thereupon, a little, but 
being fairly nervy he took a seat at her 
instigation, and the performance com- 
menced* She told him the story of her 
life, beginning at the beginning* It was 
a sad story, but he was not much 
interested in it* He was more interested 
in collecting the ice bill* Once or twice 
he edged the subject neatly in, but she 
waived him off with delicate tact and 
went on back to the subject she had in 
hand. 

44 At length she let slip one remark or 
another that led him to doubt her sanity 
and made him afraid* Then she went to 
the drawer of her desk and brought out 
autographs of all the Presidents from 
George Washington down to the present 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

day, declaring that they had, one and all, 
of them kindly written them for her at 
her request, and his hair stood up* She 
looked old, but not one hundred and 
twenty-five years old, as she must have 
been if the Presidents from George 
Washington down, had written her their 
autographs as she had claimed. 

44 He was more than once upon the 
point of tears, telling us of his subse- 
quent emotions and the tragic maneu- 
vers to which he was obliged to resort to 
in order to get out of that house* She 
watched him like a cat, and it was only 
in her absence in the next room, where 
she had gone for an inadvertant instant 
to hunt up more Presidential signatures 
that he made a run for his life, unbolted 
the front door, unlocked the locks and 
skipping down the steps three at a time, 
made for the street* 

44 Since then he has gone out of the ice 
business and we have scratched the 
woman's name off our books. Not a 
man in the house will attempt to collect 
that bill; so she still owes it and will go 
on owing it till the end of time* 

44 People who would like to be the ice 


123 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

man ought to try it awhile first and see.” 

“ Was it any special day that you 
went down in the slums?” enquired 
Muriel. 44 Market day or anything ?” 

44 Every day is market day, it seems to 
me,” I replied. 44 No. Fm studying it. 
That's all. I'm trying to find a room 
down there if I can.” 

“ You'd better stay where you are,” 
interrupted the ice man . 44 Take a bird's 
eye view. There are tenements, if you 
want tenements, closer. We are in 
daily communication with them. We 
supply ice to them, and the trouble we 
have settling up our accounts ! Talk of 
the trouble in the slums ! For instance, 
Mrs. Eikstein on the fifth floor will order 
thirty-five pounds of ice. Then Mrs. 
Jacobs on the third floor will order 
twenty-five pounds. Then Mrs. 
Solomon on the first floor will order ten. 

“ The ice man puts them all on the 
dumb waiter and starts them up. 

44 The dumb waiter stops at the first 
floor, that is to say, at the flat of Mrs. 
Solomon. What does she do but take 
the big thirty-five pound piece of ice 
belonging to Mrs. Eikstein, and shove it 


124 


The Color of His Soul 

into her refrigerator* 

“ The dumb waiter, not being able to 
talk, says nothing, but goes on up to the 
third floor, where Mrs* Jacobs arrests it 
and takes off the next biggest piece of 
ice, weighing twenty-five pounds* 

Then what is left for Mrs* Eikstein on 
the fifth floor but the little, tiny ten 
pound piece which had been ordered by 
the scheming Mrs* Solomon on the first 
floor of all ? 

44 And Mrs* Eikstein had ordered the 
thirty-five pound piece? 

44 The squealing when it comes to set- 
tling up those bills ! Lord !'' 

His wife chimed in* 
u We've only been married a little 
while, '' said she , 44 and as I had nothing 
to do all day but sit around and mope, 
waiting for Jack, they gave me a job at 
the office* I was to take the old bills 
around and get what I could for them, 
you understand, anything they would be 
kind enough to offer me and let it go at 
that* 

“ The first one they sent me to was a 
woman who had been owing a bill for a 
year or two* She was out* She didn't 


4 The Color of His Soul 

live very far, though, so I went home 
and loafed about with my hat on till 
close on to five o' clock, when I was sure 
she would be in* Nearly everybody is 
apt to be in, you know, somewhere 
about five o'clock* 

44 She was in all right enough* I 
wished afterward she hadn't been* She 
came to the door herself* 

44 4 Are you the woman from the ice 
factory?' she asked* 

44 4 1 am,' I answered, and was upon 
the point of drawing out my bill and pre- 
senting it when she grabbed me by the 
arm, jerked me into the hall, and com- 
menced to call me every awful name she 
could lay her tongue to* She nearly 
scared me to death* I broke away from 
her and ran* When I got home I was 
laid up for three days with a doctor's bill 
as long as my arm, from sheer fright* I 
didn't try to collect any more bills after 
that, I can tell you* They'll fall to 
pieces of age before I'll do any more col- 
lecting ; because the older they are, the 
madder they get at you for trying to 
collect them*" 

44 It does seem to be so," assented her 

126 


T/ie Color of His Soul 

husband* 44 We have a pretty hard 
time of it* Still there are some custo- 
mers who even up things by paying* I 
had one* A doctor* The best fellow I 
ever knew* He owed me five dollars. I 
went around after it one morning when I 
was short of cash* He was tending a 
bad case of delirium tremens at the time. 
The man was some better* He sat in 
the front room looking innocent as you 
please, but oh, my ! Butter wouldn't 
have melted in his mouth, to look at him, 
but wait till I tell you* The doctor 
started off into the next room. 

44 4 See to this fellow for me a minute, 
Jack,' " he said, 4 while I write you out a 
cheque.' 

“ 4 All right,' I answered, 4 1 will*' 

44 With that I stood off and looked at 
the fellow, not expecting any excitement 
to speak of; but what you expect and 
v/hat you get in this old world are hardly 
ever one and the same thing. He wasn't 
gone half a minute before the man began 
to see things* Then I had to hold him. 
His eyes got wild, he stared at me as if I 
were some green-eyed monster, then 
commenced slowly to pull yards and 


127 


T/ie Color of His Soul 

yards and yards of invisible things and 
throw them back of him* When he got 
tired of pulling them — and they were the 
longest snakes I ever saw in my life — he 
stretched skinny claws out, grasping the 
air. I looked for the things he was try- 
ing to grasp* I could almost see them. 

“ Toads! Frogs! Young alligators! 
Reptiles with fangs ! Crocodiles ! 

“ By the time that doctor got back I 
was as white about the gills as the man 
himself — a physical wreck. 

u If I ever earned a five dollar cheque 
in the ice business/' he added reminis- 
cently, “ I earned it then." 

“ How about the undertakers/' I 
asked. 44 Aren't they good customers?" 

“ Oh well, yes, as a rule, pretty good; 
but they want to Jew you down to the 
last notch. They use car loads of ice, 
but half the time they don't want to 
pay you for the trouble of hauling it." 

He leaned back in a tired way a 
moment, rose and pushed away his chair. 

“ As I say," he repeated , 44 it ain't 
what it's cracked up to be, this being 
the ice man." 


128 


CHAPTER XIIL 


iRS* MALLON had been taken 
f j suddenly ill. We were sit- 
tv 1 1 ting up with her, her sister 
Jane, Cecil and I. 

She lay stretched in her darkened bed- 
room. We sat in the dining-room, talk- 
ing, Cecil tilted back in his chair, his 
pipe alight. 

“ Are you really going to the slums ?” 
asked his Aunt Jane. 

44 I can tell you,” answered Cecil. “No. 
She is studying it at long range.” 

44 That,” I retorted , 44 is better than 
lecturing on it and not studying it at all.” 

Turning to his aunt: 

“ I can't tell,” I added. “ The 
College Settlement people won't let me 
come down there. I might interfere with 
the peculiar order of refinement they are 
engaged in distributing. It might get 
mixed, you know. That wouldn't do 
at all. And I can't find a room I could 
live in. Besides, so far as I can dis- 
cover, just looking on, those people are 
not deserving of much sympathy. They 


129 


The Color of His Soul 

are satisfied with their condition* They 
rather enjoy it than otherwise, it seems 
to me.” 

Cecil prodded down the ashes in his 
pipe and laughed. 

“ It amuses me,” he said, “ to hear 
Dolly air her opinion of the slums. Enjoy 
living in sweatshops, roosting under cart 
awnings in the broiling sun, bending over 
sewing machines !” 

“Go down there and see,” I suggested. 
“ Watch them laughing and chatting 
across to each other from cart to cart, 
holding their month-old infants up for 
the admiration of their friends — if a 
slum woman couldn't raise her baby out 
in broad day light, she wouldn't raise it 
at all — flirting between bites of cherries, 
chasing each other up and down in an 
occasional game of hide and seek, chas- 
tising the kids with industrious slippers 
before the gaze of the world. They have 
their own fun out of life. It's not all 
sack cloth and ashes by any manner of 
means. 

44 Then compare them with the old 
country. They are not worse off. 

They are not half as bad off. You find 


130 


The Color of His Soul 

the poor sprawling over London, not in 
particular spots, slums, but all over, 
every where. Market day in Houston 
Row is worse than any market day in 
our slums; Seven Dials is only a stone's 
throw from the lights of the Palace 
Theatre; go three blocks in most direc- 
tions from Regent Street and Bond, and 
you find slums disreputable as those of 
the east side, and more so, impossible 
slums, packed and jammed with blear- 
eyed paupers, soiled children strung in 
rows, like small black pearls, hand in 
hand. . . What's that ?" 

They listened. 

“ It's Margaret, groaning," decided 
her sister. 44 There. She's stopped. . ♦ 
You surprise me about London. I 
thought it was a rich and beautiful city." 

44 Rich enough, and beautiful, too, 
with its marvelous scheme of color, 
generated by the fogs; but the poor ! 
Somebody has said that where you find 
exaggerated riches, there you find ex- 
aggerated poverty. London is a city 
of beggars. They stand on every street 
corner, holding out their hands. They 
petition you at the door of your cab. 


"The Color of His Soul 

They stand at your porch step and beg* 
No matter where you go you walk be- 
tween an avenue of dingy, outstretched 
palms, grimy as the city itself, with its 
soot and its fog* 

44 What's this sudden apparition? She 
frightens me* One minute she is laid 
out apparently; the next she gets up and 
walks around*" 

u What is it, Margaret ?" called her 
sister* 44 Do you want anything?" 

44 Never mind," returned Margaret, 
from the adjoining room* 44 I've got it 
now." 

44 How about the Paris slums?" 
enquired her sister. 

44 Paris is like her demi monde, who 
walk the streets exquisitely dressed, with 
hardly sufficient warmth of under-cloth- 
ing to keep off the cold. She conceals 
her poverty* The poor are not allowed 
to beg. They are not permitted to moan, 
to wail, to stretch forth petitioning 
palms as in London, to annoy the passer- 
by with their lamentations. The real 
poverty of Paris is that of the little 
students in the Latin Quarter, who hide 
themselves in attics, who live on 


132 


The Color of His Soul 

a pittance, who frequently starve and 
starve heroically in the cause of art. 

You gee them lounging about the 
galleries of the Louvre, not so much 
watching the paintings by great masters, 
as trying to keep warm. You see them 
wrapped in their artist's cloaks after 
dark, curled up on benches, trying to 
sleep. You see them everywhere, starv- 
ing decently, bravely keeping up ap- 
pearances till the last. 

44 As for the streets, they are clean of 
paupers, that is to say, beggars, as our 
Fifth Avenue. I walked for miles one 
day along the quays beneath the bridges, 
looking for paupers. I found them like 
the floors of kitchens as to cleanliness, 
swept diligently with brooms. A few 
men shaving dogs under the eye of their 
anxious masters, and fishermen, and 
that was all. There she is again, walk- 
ing about as usual." 

44 She's a queer patient," remarked her 
sister. 44 Is there anything I can do for 
you, Margaret?" 

“ Nothing now," came the reply. 

“ I went out to Auteuil," I continued, 
44 looking for poverty. It was as clean 


133 


T/te Color of His Soul 

out there. I found some people living 
rather poorly in boat houses along the 
Seine, but they were clean. No matter 
how poor French people are, they are 
clean. It's a pity you can't say as much 
for the English paupers. Nothing 
brought a single pang, with the excep- 
tion of a girl of fourteen, who led a party 
of four children through an acrobatic 
performance in the chill fall air, and 
looked as if she had been whipped. Her 
eyes were red. Her cheeks were 
splotched by moppings of wet handker- 
chiefs. . . 

44 But as for Italy. No words can 
describe the poverty of that exquisite 
country, the land of beggars, cripples, 
slums and art. They demand money 
at every step. They scream at you. 
They run after you, screaming. It is as 
much as your life is worth in some places 
to pass through without distributing 
alms. The inhabitants of our slums are 
largely Italians. . . ” 

44 And Jews and Japanese and Chinese 
and every nation under the sun, you 
might say," interrupted Cecil. 

44 What right have they to dump 


134 


The Color of His Soul 

themselves on our shores, to over-run us 
with their inherited Continental thrift- 
lessness, to cheapen our labor with the 
pauperism of their wage slavery ? ” I 
demanded. “ Why should they be al- 
lowed to deluge us with their ignorance? 
Not only that, but to run our country, 
practically, with the power we put into 
their hands of voting?” 

Cecil tilted back his chair till his head 
struck the wall. 

44 1 like to hear Dolly discuss politics,” 
he laughed. 44 Talk about ignorance !” 

Most people talked on most subjects 
with dense ignorance, according to Cecil, 
with the exception of himself, so without 
further cavil I waived the question. 

44 That is the way I feel about it part 
of the time,” I continued , 44 but nearly 
always it leaves me with an ache. Go 
where you will you find the poverty of 
the world, the sorrow of the world, 
sorrow you find it possible to endure 
sometimes, and then again that rocks 
you helplessly back and forth and leaves 
you staring at the ceiling till the early 
dawn comes stealing in and lighting up 
the pattern of the paper on the wall. If 


i35 


The Color of His Soul 

you would live, you must drown it* You 
must forget* Above all, if you would be 
happy, you must steel your heart and 
shut your eyes to the memories that 
stalk in the day, in the dawn, but most 
of all in the wee small hours, dark, mys- 
terious and still as death, for the passing 
of their footsteps* Who is it said that 
back of every happiness there lies an 
open window, through which there steals 
a breath that chills the soul? It is true. 
It is true* So back of the happiness of 
the world there lies this open window of 
the sorrow of the world, of the poverty 
of the world, through which come 
breaths that chill our hearts and souls 
to freezing.” 

We sat in silence, Cecil for once 
neglecting to retort, peering instead into 
the room out of which a tall white figure 
came drifting, looming up in the dark* 

It tilted forward and his mother stood 
in the doorway. 

44 There's nothing like having your 
friends aroundto take care of you,” she 
stammered. “ This is the third time I 
have had to get up and get my medicine 
myself.” 

136 


The Color of His Soul 

We scattered precipitately, putting 
her back to bed, fanning her, waiting 
zealously upon her in the effort to com- 
pensate for our negligence* 

Later on her sister looked near- 
sightedly at the clock* 

44 It is time for me to go,” she said. 

44 Will you stay with her a little while 
longer?” 

44 A little while,” I replied. 

She went. 

Cecil disappeared into his own room 
and reappeared presently, his necktie 
freshly tied, his hat in hand. 

44 Will you stay with mother? ” he 
asked in a whisper , 44 till I come back?” 

“ If you don't stay too long,” I told 
him. 

I stayed with her. I stayed for hours. 
The clock struck twelve. It struck one. 
She was restless. She suffered intensely. 
I gave her medicine. I bathed her face. 
I put cold cloths on her brow. All to no 
avail. It seemed impossible to ease her 
suffering. 

I sat by her fanning through the heat 
of the oppressive June night, listening to 
her moans, distressed by their sound and 


137 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

by my helplessness. 

It was near on to three before he 
returned. Hearing his footstep I 
walked to the light and confronted him. 
In the unexpected flare of the electric 
his eyes gleamed, distended. 

They were more than ever like the 
eyes of a cat, 

44 She is ill,” I complained , 44 fright- 
fully ill, but you, you are absolutely 
without heart, I don't believe you 
would care if she were dying,” 


CHAPTER XIV* 

T the door of the breakfast 
room I stopped, my hand on 
the knob, looking through 
the hall into the kitchen 
where Mr* Tront sat sprawled on a 
chair, asleep* The helpless abandon of 
his attitude gave me the heartache* I 
opened the door and took my seat at the 
table, where I opened my rejected manu- 
scripts as usual and read the printed 
slips* I was engaged in mentally swap- 
ping stories, for 44 What will not suit the 
requirements of one editor often suits 
the requirements of another,” and vice 
versa, when a sharp voice from the 
kitchen broke in upon my revery* 

44 Get up from here,” it said , 44 you 
shan't come down here and sleep in the 
kitchen like this* Get up* Go on up 
stairs*” 

I heard shuffling footsteps shambling 
along the hall and ascending the stairs* 
Then Mrs* Tront came smilingly into 
the dining-room* 

44 Is there anything you want ?” she 



*39 


The Color of His Sou l 


asked. 

There was, but I had lived at boarding 
houses long enough to refrain from wast- 
ing unnecessary breath, so I answered: 

44 No, thank you,” adding. “ It's a 
shame the way you talk to that dog of 
yours. I should think some fine morn- 
ing he'd pick up and leave.” 

She puckered her eyebrows into a 
frown. 

“ I wasn't talking to the dog,” she 
returned, “ I was talking to my husband. 

" Oh!” said I. 

On the way upstairs I met the chorus 
girl. We had had merely a bowing and 
smiling acquaintance, her hours for 
meals being different from mine; but 
now she showed a strong inclination to 
be affable. I had always wanted to ask 
her a few questions in regard to her stage 
costumes, but considering the extreme 
scarcity of them, I had been afraid. 

44 Come in,” I entreated , 44 and stay 
with me while I straighten up my room. 
The housemaid is supposed to do it, you 
know, but she never gets in till some- 
where about the middle of the afternoon, 
so I do it myself. Is she like that with 


140 


T/ze Color of His Soul 


you?* 

44 The same/' she answered, taking a 
chair and looking about at the bric-a- 
brac and things* 

44 You've got a nice room," she said 
presently* 44 Mine is a little two by six 
on the top floor, but I'm hardly ever in 
it, so it doesn't much matter* We have 
to put up with a lot of things, we chorus 
girls*" 

44 Tell me," I implored* “The first time 
you went on the stage, did you feel the 
ghastly sensation of wishing to grasp 
your skirts and pull them down, when 
there weren't any skirts to pull ? I've 
heard some say they do." 

44 Not on your Life," she retorted* 

44 By the time you have passed the exam- 
ination, stood up before twenty men in a 
row, and had your good and bad points 
criticised as if you were deaf, dumb, 
blind and hadn't any feeling or interest 
in the matter whatever, you don't care 
so much as you might for the opinion of 
the general public* By the time they have 
half closed twenty pairs of keen, cold eyes, 
looked you over as if you were a sense- 
less two-year-old, and said, 'Gunning, 

141 


The Color of His Soul 

you're a little off on the left side there. 
Pad/ or 4 You're a bit too big in the 
waist. Lace !' you've about got over any 
little squeamishness you may have 
possessed, before you've had time to 
stand up and face the audience." 

44 Do you stand the examination 
dressed just as you are now?" 

44 Yes." 

44 1 don't see for the life of me how 
they tell what you are going to look 
like in tights/' said I. 44 Not for the 
life of me." 

44 They can't/' she averred. 44 Nobody 
can ever tell how a girl is going to look 
in tights from her looks out of them. The 
managers may hold your arm all they 
want to, hold it till they are tired, but 
they'll only know as much as they did 
before. Anyway, what's the diff erence ? 
Out of twenty-four girls in our chorus 
twenty-two wear symmetricals." 

44 And what?" I questioned, 44 are 
symmetricals?" 

The girl looked at me disgustedly. 

44 Don't you know? They are the 
figures of the chorus girls. They buy 
them for so much and put them on." 


142 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

I nearly let a vase fall, I laughed so* 

“ And what about the bald heads ?" I 
gasped* 

“ It's good enough for them/' declared 
the chorus girl* 44 They sit in the front 
row and gaze beamingly at them, those 
symmetrical, and smile and giggle and 
nudge each other and ogle* They 
might as well ogle so many rows of wax 
figures, if they only knew it; but they 
don't know it, so what harm does it do? 
They are just as well off, and those sym- 
metrical help many a poor girl into the 
chorus who would be selling matches in 
the street if it wasn't for them*" 

She leant back in her rocker, crossed 
one foot over the other and swung it in a 
delicately reminiscent way. 

“ I shall never forget a new girl who 
came into the chorus one night," she 
began, “ looking as near like a dream as 
a girl in split tights could. She was per- 
fect* Absolutely. I never saw such a 
figure on anybody, and the rest of the 
girls said the same* We were green 
with envy, the whole twenty-three of us. 
We said, * Now, we are done for. That 
girl'll stand up before the footlights and 


143 


The Color of His Soul 

take the looking at away from every last 
one of us* That's what she'll do. We 
won't be in it.' 

44 It is exactly what she did, but we 
laid for her. One night she came in 
without her symmetricals, and we sized 
her up. Of all the figures! We didn't 
say a word about it. Oh, no l" 

I had finished dusting by now, and 
was sitting at my typewriter table, 
cleaning my machine. 

44 You work pretty hard at that, don't 
you?" said she. 44 1 hear it going every 
time I go by the door." 

44 It isn't so bad," I told her. “ Some 
days I write a story and get a lot of 
money for it. Then other days I write 
one and never sell it at all. It's a 
gamble, all around, but you don'^t put 
any capital in it. Your brains, that's all. 
Then unexpected things happen. The 
other day, for instance, I raked up a two- 
year- old manuscript, recopied it and 
sold it for a dandy price. So there's no 
telling but any of my old stuff lying pro- 
miscuously about might be worth dead 
loads of money. If I could get the editors 
to think as I do about it, it would all 


144 


The Color of His Soul 

be worth its weight in gold /' 

She laughed* 

“ Nobody's life is all strawberries and 
cream/' she reasoned. “ We've most 
of us got our tales of woe. If you think 
you'd like to be a chorus girl/' — I never 
had thought it, not for a single minute— 
44 you ought to try making a lightning 
change once, with the accommodations 
usually given to the chorus girl. This 
is what we have to do. Our rooms are 
on the top floor. They always are. We 
have, therefore, to run up five flights of 
stairs to undress. We begin undressing 
on the way up. We have then to change 
from tights to skirts, change slippers, 
stockings, neckties and gloves, hook our 
bodices — always fastened in the back — 
and run down again, all in the limited 
space of five minutes by the clock. 

44 Imagine twenty-four girls tearing 
up-stairs at breakneck speed in a jum- 
bled row, unbuttoning each other's 
bodices as they run, then leaping back 
down again, buttoning them. 

44 Often I have gone on the stage, 
smiling and bowing fit to kill, with my 
bodice as wide open in the back as the 


145 


The Color of His Soul 

dried skin of a grasshopper; because, you 
see, I was first off and last on, and there 
was nobody back of me to button it.” 

44 How much do you get a week?” I 
asked. 

44 Eighteen dollars, but if you are not 
careful, about half of it goes one way 
and another in fines and that. If there's 
a tear in your tights — and you have to 
keep them mended yourself, mind you — 
you are fined fifty cents. If your skirts 
are not span clean — you can fancy what 
the laundry bills are for lace skirts with 
a dozen ruffles — another fine, fifty cents. 
If you don't get on the stage in time, 
fifty cents. If you get off too quickly, 
fifty cents. It doesn't take very many 
of these fifty centses to make some 
dollars, if you want to know, and they 
seem to try and see how often they can 
fine you. If you turn around they fine 
you. If you don't turn around they fine 
you. So there you are.” 

It suddenly dawning upon her that I 
was waiting to commence work, she rose 
to go. 

** I know,” she said wistfully, at the 
door , 44 to see a girl standing up before 

146 


The Color of His Soul 


the footlights, serene and blooming in 
pink tights, a yellow wig and a pleasant 
smile, you'd think her life was one long, 
radiant dream; but that's just where 
you'd find yourself very much mis- 
taken," she finished, and sighed* 


147 


CHAPTER XV. 

m STOOD still, watching a woman 
of the slums go upstairs. Her 
movements were peculiar. 
They were old-worldish. She 
bent double, so completely double, 
that I thought she was a cripple, until 
she stood comparatively erect on the 
first landing. In her right hand was a 
glass of milk. It was the holding of this 
milk to keep it from spilling, which had 
exaggerated her contortions. 

I followed in her footsteps in search of 
a room. In the apartment of the 
janitress a child stopped cooking the 
late breakfast, or early lunch, and 
volunteered to show me the vacant room 
which was situated, as ordinarily, at the 
top of the house among the chimneys. 

As usual, too, it was an impossible 
room. I was coming despairingly down, 
when a door burst open on the second 
landing, and the janitress pushed a 
young girl violently out. 

44 Go” she cried. 44 You no pay rent. 
You no stay.” 


148 



The Color of His Soul 

The girl shrank against the wall, her 
apron to her face. She sobbed convul- 
sively. I could not bear to hear her sob. 
It was like the gasping distress of a hurt 
child. 

I went up to her and took the apron 
away. Her eyes had the look of a 
hunted animal. They ran over with 
tears. The cheeks were flushed and 
mottled, but the face was as pretty as a 
picture. 

“ What's the matter?” I queried. 

44 1 have no work. . . ” sobs punct- 
uated the sentences. 44 Nobody will 
give me work now.” The “ now ” was 
pitiful. 44 So how can I pay my rent ?” 

The apron went back to the eyes and 
she once more sobbed. 

I thought a little while, then: 

44 You can come with me, if you will,” 

I said 44 I think I know of a place 

where they will take you. I am almost 
sure.” 

She drew away the apron and looked 
at me as if she had not quite understood. 

“ Come with me,” I repeated , 44 and I 
will find you a home.” 

In her room was a satchel, in which she 


149 


Hhe Color of His Soul 


packed what few belongings she had left 
from the pawn shop, and it was not long 
before we were out in the street on our 
way to the elevated* 

Though she had on a little cape, which 
partly hid her, she shrank from glances* 
She was hatless, but that was not 
remarked in the slums, where hats are 
the exception to the rule* It was only 
when we reached the elevated that they 
looked hard at us, first at her with her 
yellow hair bared in the sun and then at 
me* 

In the car I glanced at her, sitting so 
demurely by me, with her frightened air 
and her startled, hunted eyes, trying to 
think how she had drifted to the slums* 
She was not Italian, Japanese, nor yet 
Jewish* She was my sister, a country- 
woman, an American* 

44 What is your name?” I questioned 
by and by. 

“ Elsie Rysner.” 

44 And you are not very old, are you?” 

“ I am just eighteen*” She looked 
younger and her ways were those of a 
child* 

As we whirled on she brightened per- 
is© 


The Color of His Soul 

ceptibly. It was as if she were on the 
frolic of a vacation, her trouble for the 
moment half forgotten. 

44 How clean it is here,” she said, look- 
ing out on the streets towards the west. 

44 1 am not used to the slums. I haven't 
been there long. Once I lived over with 
the clean, white people; not so very long 
ago, a few months only, until they 
wouldn't let me sew there any longer. 

“ Then I sewed in the slums, till they 
wouldn't let me sew there any longer, 
either/' and her trouble coming back in 
a rush of memories, her voice died away 
in the choke of a sob. 

44 You can tell me all about it some- 
time,” I soothed, ** not now. We must 
see what is best for you to do. I know 
a hospital near the river, kept by the 
Little Sisters of Misery. It is a big red 
building, with a sort of a tower. I will 
show it to you, but you must go to it 
alone. 

44 1 know the place well. It is kept 
for just such girls as you. If you go to 
them and tell them quite simply that 
you are destitute, that you have nothing 
and no friends, they will take you in and 
I 5 I 


The Color of His Soul 

keep you through your trouble* I will 
stand outside a little way off, and watch 
and see* If it should be that there is no 
room — and it sometimes happens — we 
will have to think of some other plan, 
some other thing to do.” 

I helped her down the steps at our 
station* We walked toward East River. 

A block away from4he Little Sister of 
Misery I stopped and she went on alone* 

She approached the hospital, wistfully 
looking tip at the windows of the tall 
brick building* I saw her slowly 
ascend the steps and lean against the 
door, waiting. 

By and by someone came. She 
talked to them, her light head moving 
pleadingly as she talked. I saw her 
turn her face, nod brightly at me, and 
enter. 

The door closed on her. 

Then I came away home. 


152 


CHAPTER XVI* 


DAY later I, too, went up 
the steps of the hospital 
kept by the Little Sisters of 
Misery, looking at the name 
printed in large gilt letters in the glass 
over the door* 



While I awaited a response to my 
knock I watched two of the little sisters 
emptying ashes, bringing them out from 
the side gate and dumping them into the 
street* No occupation was too menial 
for these little sisters* They emptied 
ashes as gracefully as they led processions 
to mass or told their beads* 

At length the door opening four inches 
or more, disclosed a small face about 
which were white bands, coffin-shaped, 
further enveloped in the long black veil 
worn by the nuns* 

44 What is it ?" asked the little sister* 

44 1 should like to see Elsie Rysner," I 
said* 

44 The young girl who came yester- 
day?" 

" Yes." 


153 


The Color of His Soul 

She opened the door wide enough to 
let me in, but no wider, and clanking 
great brass chains, fastening it, she 
stood and looked at me. 

44 Are you her friend ?” she enquired. 

44 Yes,” I answered, as before, awed 
by her demeanor, her dense blackness of 
garb, and the dimness of the hall into 
which she had admitted me, from which 
ran other halls, leading into rooms foil of 
pictures of saints and statues of 
Madonnas, surrounded by luxuriant 
growths of flowers and ferns. 

She gave me a seat in a square room 
bare-floored and sparse enough as to fur- 
niture, with upright chairs, one divan, 
and an old-fashioned square piano in the 
corner; but neat as wax and much 
polishing by nimble fingers could make 
it. .... . 

Leaving me there she went soft-footed 
to a consultation with superiors in regard 
to Elsie and me and as to my seeing her. 

Other soft-footed nuns passed by the 
doors in sedate and solemn rows. From 
below or above, it was impossible to say 
which, came the sound of subdued 
chanting. I thought I smelt incense. 

154 


Color of His Soul 

The quiet, the peace of the place sank 
into my soul. I could have sat there for 
hours, letting life roll by like a slow and 
tranquil river, my mind and heart 
soothed by the grateful inertia of 
my body, at rest. 

By and by the little nun came back 
and led me through a great wide hall and 
up a stairway in process of being 
scrubbed by a neat girl with rich brown 
braids and sleeves rolled to the elbow, 
to the long ward where Elsie was. 

She sat in a straight up and down 
chair by her bed, which was one of 
many, one of a vista of beds alike as 
peas, stretching indefinitely. 

The desolation of her attitude caught 
at my heart. I hastened to her and 
kissed her. 

“ I am so glad to see you,” she fal- 
tered. 

“ Yes. Don't cry now. There is 
nothing to cry about. You are com- 
fortable here, aren't you, aren't you?'' 

I repeated the words unconsciously, 
anxious to hear her reassure me. Com- 
fortable, perhaps; but what misery, 
the crowding with so many others. I 


iS5 


The Color of His Soul 

had never thought of that* 

The little sister stood aside* I went to 
her and talked with her, telling of 
Elsie, and how I had found her and of 
my interest in her youth and unhappi- 
ness. 

Her framed face confronted me 
calmly. She was used, apparently, to 
similar tales of woe. 

“ And aren't there rooms where she 
can be with one or two ?" I questioned. 

44 Not with so many ?" For as we talked 
I could see patient after patient come in 
and move about the ward at the farther 
end, patients of a class far below Elsie's. 
She was refined, the girl, and charming 
in spite of her destitution, partly perhaps 
because of it. 

44 There are rooms," replied the sister, 
carefully choosing her words after the 
manner of nuns , 44 but they must be 
paid for." 

She named the price. It was not 
unreasonable. I made a rapid mental 
calculation as to the extent of my funds, 
flinging a thought after some stories I 
had sent out the night before, hoping 
against hope that they would stick, 

156 


T/ze Color of His Soul 


praying for Elsie's sake that my editor 
friend was wrong and no material 
deficiency existed in my work to rob it 
of its selling qualities. 

“ It will not be for long/' I said, smil- 
ing back at the girl, 44 and she must be 
comfortable. I shall not be satisfied 
unless she is. I will pay for it." 

Then Elsie and I moved her belong- 
ings to the new room. It was across 
another long wide hall, at the far end of 
which stood a Madonna surrounded by 
candles and diminutive pots of blooming 
flowers. It had two beds only, snowy 
beds, wide of pillow and long of coverlid. 
They were enclosed by screens and at the 
head of each was a cheery rocking chair, 
brightly covered with chintz. The 
sunny window was high and big, a dress- 
ingtablestoodnearitand two neat wash- 
stands against the wall opposite the beds 
finished the furnishing. 

44 You'll be comfy here, won't you?" I 
said, arranging her comb and brush on 
the dressing table and hanging up her 
clothes — all of them of good quality and 
neat — in the roomy closet close to the 
door, stopping to look at the sign read- 
1 57 


The Color of His Soul 

mg: “ Please pray for the Lady who fur- 
nished this room,” and the little china 
receptacle for the holy water. 

Then I sat down on the floor by her 
rocking chair. 

44 It's a beautiful room,” she nodded, 
assentingly. 

44 But you must have something to 
occupy you,” I argued , 44 something to 
keep you from getting lonesome or wor- 
rying. I know what we'll do. I will 
get you some bits of linen and you can 
make a few little clothes. How would 
you like that?” 

She clasped her hands delightedly. 

“ I want to. I want to,” she cried, 

44 and I can make them beautifully, too, 
being a sewing girl. I know how to sew 
well. You should see my work.” She 
put a taper finger to her lip. 

44 Maybe that was why I happened to 
be a sewing girl,” she murmured , 44 to 
make the little clothes. And you are 
going to get them for me? What is your 
name?” 

" Dolly.” 

44 To think I didn't even know your 
name,” she pouted , 44 and may I call 

158 


The Color of His Soul 
you by it ?" 

44 Of course. Call me Dolly ." 

She stroked my hand. 

44 How good of you to get me some 
linen ! I haven't anything. Not even 
needles and thread." 

“ I will get them for you, too," I told 
her. 

A girl in a long slatted sunbonnet 
entered the room, followed by a nurse in 
so neat a gown of gingham it was good to 
see her. 

The girl took off her bonnet and 
stretched herself exhaustedly on the bed. 
The nurse pulled the screen about her. 

Elsie and I talked in whispers, so as not 
to disturb her rest. 

After a time. 

44 I must go," I said. 

She threw out her arms with the 
pleading movement of a child. 

44 But to-morrow," I hurried explain- 
ing, 44 I am coming again, and then I will 
bring the little things." 

She threw back her head and looked 
long at me. 

44 Do you live far?" she queried. 44 Oh 
you don't live far. Do you ?" 

159 


< 57ze Color of His Soul 


“ Not very. And remember, I am 
coming back early to-morrow, I must 
go now, Elsie, Good-bye. Good-bye/' 
It was like tearing oneself away from 
the arms of a clinging infant. 

At the door I glanced back at her. 

She was sitting where I had left her, 
facing me and the door, her fair head 
drooped to one side. 

Her big eyes were full of tears and one 
had fallen. 


160 


CHAPTER XVII* 


RS. MALLON had recovered 
sufficiently to sit up in an 
arm chair by the window and 
look over into the street, 
from which the noises came shrilly up. 
The curtains had been taken down for 
the letting in of the breeze. It gave to 
the flat a forlorn air. Her attenuated 
figure lost in the recesses of the chair, 
her frail hands extended upon the arms 
of it, her profile outlined against the 
dusk of the open window, added a touch 
of solitariness. 

I had opened the kitchen door and 
gone in without knocking, a habit I had 
formed during her illness when, confined 
to her bed in the inner room, it was 
impossible for her to hear either knock 
or ring. 

I crept upon her, turned her white face 
and kissed her. 

44 I never heard a sound,” said she. 

44 1 knew you hadn't. Some of there 
fine days a burglar will come and carry 
you off bodily without your knowing it.” 

161 



The Color of His Soul 


Finding a big palm leaf fan, I took a 
chair at the other window facing her, 
and fanned. 

44 I believe you like being convales- 
cent/' I smiled, 44 You get out of doing 
the work/' 

She smiled back. 

44 It is a rest," she acknowledged. 

44 Mr. Mallon has been at home. He does 
it for me." 

“ Without a word of complaint, too," 

I added in my thought, saying verbally, 

44 and Cecil?" 

44 Cecil is so occupied with his lectures 
he can't do much of anything else. 
Besides, he is very delicate. He has 
grown up too quickly or something." 

“ Where is he now?" 

44 Gone to the lecture of a leading 
socialist. You know of him, don't you? 
The papers are all full of him just now." 

44 1 seldom read the papers." 

44 You ought to. You show that you 
don't. About many things you display 
dense ignorance, if you want to know." 

I rose, bowed and sat down again. 

44 1 make up for not reading the 
papers," I explained , 44 by coming over 

162 


The Color of His Soul 

here and talking to yon and Cecil* It's 
more improving and saves the eyes* 

It's a liberal education, in fact* Well* 
And what about this leading socialist?" 

“ Nothing. Only he has left his wife 
and gone gallivanting around this 
country and Europe with another 
woman, a younger woman." 

44 It's not uncommon." 

44 No, but his being a bright particular 
star in the socialistic firmament 
attracts particular attention to him. If 
a man makes a mark of himself by the 
display of unusual ability in any direc- 
tion, he is sure to be shot at* He may 
count on it* You would think they 
would be sort of careful, knowing that, 
and behave. But they don't* I can't 
tell whether it is because they occupy 
such prominent places that they are so 
often advertised by escapades like this, 
these leaders, or because the women fling 
themselves at their heads* You seldom 
find a leader of any sect, socialistic or 
religious, who hasn't scores of idiotic 
women followers tagging at his heels." 

44 True enough. Man is a thin skinned 
animal* He is easily pricked by the 

163 


The Color of His Soul 

needles of vanity. Did the young 
woman go about with him alone ?" 

“ No. That's the strangest part of it. 
Her mother went with her. Wasn't 
that a queer thing for a mother to do ? 
Assist at the defamation of a daughter's 
character?" 

“ Impossible to account for it. Fanat- 
icism perhaps. The foundation of 
socialism is a deep and absorbing interest 
in the human family at large. Isn't it ? 
Inform me. I am densely ignorant, 
you know, about many things, not 
having read the scare lines of the 
dailies.’' 

44 It's something of the sort," she 
assented, vaguely. 

44 In the human family at large," I 
repeated, 44 Now, as in the old days, a 
few victims must occasionally be 
served up for the good of the whole. 
Perhaps it was her idea that her 
daughter's intellect was needed to 
perfect that of this great leader of the 
people. How does that sound? " 

44 It sounds idiotic, but go on." 

44 So she cheerfully sacrificed her 
reputation, which when all is said and 

164 


The Color of His Soul 

done, is about the greatest thing a 
mother can possibly part with in a 
daughter, and thus exhibited her 
heroism. Then what became of the 
wife?” 

44 She's left, deserted, in other words, 
forsaken, abandoned,” 

44 You must have been studying syno- 
nyms. How old is this woman ?” 

u Forty-five, I believe. Maybe fifty.” 

44 It serves her right,” I asserted, fan- 
ning vigorously. 44 What business had 
she to grow old ? What business had 
she, I say. What woman should dare 
to survive her first wrinkle? Heavens! 
It irritates me ! She should die of it. It 
is absolutely the only way of retaining 
her husband's affections. Dead, it is 
barely possible that he might cherish an 
ash of her memory till the flowers bloom 
again; but wrinkled ! I don't see how 
you could have expected him to stay 
with her.” 

She observed me with vague, grey eyes. 

44 1 never can tell,” she complained 
weakly , 44 whether you are in fun or 
serious.” 

I leaned forward, still fanning. 

* 6 5 


The Color of His Soul 

44 Did you ever hear of an old man?” 

I asked. 44 A really old man, I mean, 
one too old to attract attention and keep 
np his end of a more or less lively 
flirtation?” 

“ I don't know that I ever did,” after 
a moments thought. 44 Except, of 
course, Mr. Mallon; but then, you never 
know what he's doing even, when he's 
out on the road.” 

44 If I trusted anybody in the world of 
the male persuasion, I'd trust him,” I 
averred. 44 The precious old dear; but 
youth, perennial youth, is the preroga- 
tive of man. And so, she was deserted, 
was she, this wife who dared to grow 
old?” 

44 Yes, but I think there was a money 
compensation of some sort. The 
mother and daughter are wealthy people 
very wealthy. They settled a sum upon 
her, sufficient to compensate for the loss 
of the husband's affection.” 

44 I'm glad I didn't read all this in the 
papers. The excitement would have 
kept me away from work it was neces- 
sary for me to do. Tell me. What 
price did they consider necessary for 
166 


The Color of His Soul 
compensation?” 

“ Some fifty thousand dollars, I think 
thongh I am not quite sure.” 

I lay back in my chair, fanning. 

44 It was a noble price,” I panted. 

44 1 don't know a single man of my 
acquaintance for whose affection I would 
not take fifty thousand dollars with a 
4 thank ye ' too. Evidently she had an 
eye to business, setting the price so high. 
There are about seven sides to this ques- 
tion. This warm evening I don't know 
which to take. There's something 
paltry in selling her husband's affections 
for any price at all; but then, on the 
other hand, were they hers to sell ? They 
were gone already. So long as they 
were gone, why not take the money? 
Still, I can't help thinking it was a paltry 
thing to take it, all the same. What 
would you have done?” 

44 Man's affection is vacillating,” she 
argued. “You can't always be sure 
you've got it. When you are surest 
you've got it, you haven't got it at all; 
and when you've got it, you are surest 
you haven't got it. Fifty thousand dol- 
lars is a good lump sum, and it's not 
167 


TTze Color of His Soul 

vacilla ting* When it's in bank, it's in 
bank and stays there till the bank fails 
and the money goes to the directors or 
somebody it oughtn't to go to, which 
it most generally does* However, 
that's a thing you've got to risk. 
Everything in life is a risk* I can't 
decide, I am sure, but money is a mighty 
good thing* Dolly. It's an awful thing 
to be poor. An awful thing, I know." 

We fanned silently. The passing of 
the street cars made talking difficult. I 
looked out of the window. Far away in 
the north a tower scintillated with 
electrics. 

44 What is that tower?" I questioned. 
44 1 have always wondered." 

44 It is a pretty thing, isn't it? You 
would think if you didn't know, that it 
was a brilliant steeple-like finger, pointed 
heavenward, but it isn't. It's the tower 
of a distillery." 

I laughed. She was full of these con- 
tradictions and quaintly comical, this 
friend of mine. 

The increased noise of the cars cut our 
conversation short. 

“ Has Cecil found a place yet ?" I 

168 


The Color of His Soul 

asked when it had ceased somewhat* 

44 Not yet ," she sighed* 44 They are 
not so easy to find, these places* You 
don't pick them tip every day in the 
year. I am sorry he didn't get along 
with his employers. Still, if they treated 
him badly, I don't blame him for resent- 
ing it* They are making a great ftiss over 
his speeches everywhere* He has been 
asked to speak again and again. There 
is hardly a socialistic or an anarchistic 
meeting at which he is not present, either 
speaking or listening* He is getting to 
be well known* Perhaps they may 
begin to pay him for his speeches in the 
cotirse of time." 

44 In the cotirse of time, yes," I 
repeated. 

44 It doesn't look very encotiraging. 
And in the meantime, his father mtist 
work day in and day otit to take care of 
tis all* It's his own fault thotigh* If he 
hadn't put me in the kitchen, I could 
have helped." 

44 He'll have to sell several barrels of 
ink, won't he?" I sighed; for that was 
what he did. 

44 He will. Listen. Did yoti hear the 

169 


The Color of His Soul 


bell?” 

I got up, went to the door and opened 
it* Cecil stood outside* 

“ I'm surprised to see you home so 
early,” I exclaimed* 44 It isn't eleven 
o'clock yet*” 

44 Oh, come off,” he ejaculated* 44 1 
don't stay out every night till two or 
half past* Give the devil his due*” 

He took a chair near us, lighting his 
cigarette* We sat in the dark, we three 
of us, fanning* 

44 Well,” began his mother* 44 How 
was the lecture?” 

44 Splendid* He's a glorious man, one 
in a thousand, an ideal fellow and brainy* 
By Jove, but he's brainy !" 

44 Cecil is one of his most zealous fol- 
lowers, his most earnest disciples,” his 
mother volunteered complacently strok- 
ing the arm of her chair with thin white 
fingers. 

44 But what of this story I'm hearing 
about him?" I demanded to know* 

44 It's all right now. It was all right 
in the first place, so far as that is, but 
it's patched up for the benefit of the gap- 
ing world by their marriage. They say 

170 


"The Color of His Soul 

he has married her.” 

44 That makes it all right, too, I sup- 
pose, for the deserted wife and children. 
There are children, aren't there. There 
mostly are.” 

“ Some few. Four or five or six. Of 
course it's all right. Why shouldn't a 
man take more than one wife openly and 
above board if he wants them. They've 
done it from the beginning, and 
they'll go straight on doing it to the end. 
It's the natural order of things. You 
can't alter it. Whether the woman 
wants to be or not, she is the lower 
animal. She must sit by the fire and 
spin while man migrates. It's the same 
with animals. Man is only a higher 
order of animal, after all.” 

44 1 haven't quite decided yet whether 
or not he is of a higher order,” I reflected. 
“ I'm brooding over it.” 

44 A man on a high plane like this 
man,” he continued, waiving the ques- 
tion, 44 a leader, brilliant as to intellect, 
gifted in word painting, is naturally 
admired by the women. His wife, 
therefore, on a lower intellectual plane, 
ceased to interest him, so he took 


Yfo Color of His Soul 

another. He was perfectly justified in 
so doing. The mind, as well as the 
body, must be mated.” 

44 Perhaps,” I suggested, “ in the 
raising of those, four, five, or six children, 
she has had less time than he for the cul- 
tivation of her mind. That has some- 
times been known to happen.” 

“ It shouldn't be allowed to happen. 

A woman's first duty is to her husband. 
She should use every endeavor to keep 
abreast with him first. The children 
come afterward.” 

44 You may be right. I'm not saying. 
This woman, it seems, was a woman of 
many faults. She deserved to be 
deserted in all probability. Aside from 
that fact she failed to keep abreast with 
that husband of hers, she committed, as 
I was just saying to your mother, the 
added crime of growing old. In a 
woman it is the crime unpardonable.” 

“ Certainly," he acquiesced. 44 A 
woman should die at twenty-five or at 
thirty at the very least. That is, if she 
wants to save herself tears.” 

4i My opinion precisely.” 

“ Otherwise man is not to be blamed 


172 


The Color of His Soul 

for taking unto himself a fresh spouse, 
or, if the divorce be awkward, a new 
sweetheart sub rosa. It is his preroga- 
tive, Read your Bible, why don't you? 
It says, * Thou shalt not covet thy neigh- 
bor's wife,' but it draws the line there. 
Never once does it say in the whole book 
* Thou shalt not take sweethearts,' Do 
you know the reason of this?" 

“ No," 

** It is simple as A B C, The Jews 
prided themselves upon their purity of 
lineage. The law was to preserve this, 

4 Thou shalt not take unto thyself thy 
neighbor's wife,' Why? Because in 
that case it will be uncertain as to the 
parentage of the children, but as for 
concubines, those old duffers had them 
by the dozen hanging around on trees, 

“ That's all there was to it," he added, 
yawning. “ It was not in the least a 
question of morality. Not in the very 
least." 

I dropped my fan suddenly and got 
up. It was with difficulty that I re- 
frained from striking him with it, 

“ I knew of a woman once whose child 
was born with the head of a reptile," I 


173 


The Color of His Soul 

said in too low a tone for his mother to 
hear* 44 They crushed it* It is a pity 
that someone at your birth did not take 
that little head of yours, that abnor- 
mally little head, and crush the life out 
of it" 

His mother turned away from the 
window. 

44 Are you going, Dolly ?” she asked. 

44 Yes,” I answered. 44 1 must go. It 
is late.” 

“ Go with her, Cecil,” she commanded 
“ Never mind,” I hastened to object. 

“ It isn't far. I will go alone.” 




CHAPTER XVTIL 

’ ■^■jT^OMETIMES the sisters sent 
1 Elsie down stairs to see me. 
f Occasionally they permitted 
I0MV me to go to her room. 

That afternoon we were together in 
the waiting room, sitting on the divan, 
talking in a subdued tone for fear of 
being heard, since the atmosphere 
appeared to be permeated by little black 
clad nuns, their low-toned voices hum- 
ming in every direction as also the almost 
silent pit-a-pat of their still-shod feet. 

In Elsie's hand was a tiny sleeve on 
which she was whipping the lace. Pres- 
sently, laying it down in her lap, she 
curled herself close to me and rested her 
head on my shoulder. 

44 You can never tell, can you, Dolly?" 
she whispered . 44 whether you are going 
to live or. die?” 

44 Many live,” I answered back, my 
arms around her, my fingers toying with 
the ruffles of a white fichu she had 
knotted about her shoulders, the ends of 
which hung long over her dark loose 


75 


T/ze Color of His Soul 


gown* 

44 1 think,” she sighed, 44 that I should 
like to see him once, if it is to be that I 
am not to live* If I live I would rather 
not, because, because he was cruel to me 
Dolly* He deserted me.” 

44 Yes* But never mind now.” 

44 It is strange, isn't it, how, when they 
want to make you wicked, there is no 
wrong in it* It is right, perfectly right* 
There are so many, many reasons they 
have to prove it. I couldn't tell you the 
reasons he gave why there should be no 
tie to bind except the tie of love which 
is stronger than all others. 4 Why chain 
two people?' he said* 4 The moment 
they are chained, love flies '♦*•*♦ Well, 
love flies anyway, but if there is a tie, 
then that is well for the children, isn't 
it?” 

44 The question is old as time, Elsie,” 
said I* 44 It is not for us to settle it* 
Without the marriage tie society would 
be more chaotic than it is now, which is 
plenty chaotic enough* Yes. They 
are full of felicitous promises before, 
these men.” 

“ But afterward it is an awful sin, and 

176 


‘The Color of His Soul 

it is the woman who is the sinner. And 
the first to treat her as a sinner is the 
man who has been the cause of her sin.” 

Raising my hand from her ruffles I 
patted her cheek, lying soft and close 
against my shoulder. 

44 You are young to have been so well 
taught in this unhappy school,” I 
lamented. 

“ I have had a brilliant teacher,” she 
explained with some slight grimness 
strange for one of her years. 44 He was 
young but he was very brainy, very 
highly thought of for his intellect, I 
believe, among the class of people he 
went with, whom I, being only a sewing 
girl, never saw. He taught me well, as 
you say. He led me along a path that 
was full of bitterness.” 

“ How did you meet him, Elsie?” 

“ I met him one day as I was coming 
home from my work. He passed, smiled, 
bowed, turned back and spoke to me. I 
smiled, but did not answer. Then after 
I had walked a block or two he came 
hurrying after me with a bunch of 
scattered violets in his hand. 

44 4 Are these your violets 7 he asked. 


177 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

Of course they were not. He had 
bought them from the man at the corner 
and scattered them himself to make 
believe he had found them on the pave- 
ment. 

“ It was a pretty way of winning me, 
wasn't it? Through flowers. He had 
many beautiful ways then. Afterward 
I got to be half afraid of him. He was 
so strange. He was like a man without a 
soul. . ♦ . Anybody would have spoken 
to him, bringing flowers like that. 
Wouldn't you, now?" 

44 Perhaps. Women are weak. You 
can lead them anywhere if you only take 
them by the heartstrings." 

44 You would if you had been sad as 
I was, working all day long, then sitting 
alone in my room of evenings, nobody at 
all to keep me company, only some 
flowers I had planted in a box in the 
window and the cats on the garden wall." 

44 Cats do keep you company," I 
acquiesced, thinking of my own two 
friends. 

44 But flowers most. He did well to 
win me with flowers, coming as I did 
from the country where they grow so 

178 


The Color of His Soul 

plentifully, to the city where they don't 
grow at all. . . . After that I saw him 
again and again, and always he talked 
very beautifully of love. They always 
talk very beautifully of love before. 
Don't they?" 

44 They do." 

She commenced to work her fingers 
nervously together in her lap. 

44 1 shouldn't have trusted him from 
the first," she panted , 44 because he 
didn't believe in God. Don't you 
believe in God?" 

44 1 do," I affirmed. 

She raised her hand and pressed it to 
my cheek. 

44 You can't think what he said to me 
one night," she muttered. 44 It makes 
my blood run cold to remember it, I 
knelt, saying my prayers. He stood 
watching me. 4 Women are strange 
creatures,' he sneered. 4 With them the 
passion of religion often takes the place 
of passion for men,' and he laughed. I 
raised my head, looking at him, wonder- 
ingly, surprised that God didn't strike 
him dead for talking so. 4 Do you know 
what Voltaire said,' he asked, 4 but how 


179 


The Color of His Soul 

can you, a sewing girl, know anything 
about Voltaire ?' I think sometimes 
he began to hate me because I was a sew- 
ing girl, but I was that when he brought 
me the violet s. 4 Voltaire/ he explained 
4 was an atheist. He said that a woman 
gives herself to God when man no longer 
cares for her/ That is, after she is old 
and grey. But that isn't true, is it ? 
Look at these beautiful little young 
nuns, too young, too pretty to be called, 
' mother/ and 4 sister/ as they call them. 
They have given themselves to God. 

You know Voltaire, don't you, Dolly? 
You belong to the class of people that he 
belonged to. Did he say that ?'' 

44 Yes, and many other blasphemous 
things; but he died in horrible convul- 
sions, calling out on the God he had 
traduced to come and help him.” 

44 I wish I had known you then, 
Dolly/' she cooed, pressing my hand still 
closer to her cheek. 44 You would have 
helped me. Wouldn't you? As it 
was. ♦ ♦ ♦ but how can you know they 
are going to quit caring when they 
promise so ♦ ♦ ♦ and women are weak.” 

“ They are weak where they should 
180 


The Color of His Soul 

be strongest, vulnerable through the 
affections, all* When they become as 
a class coldly calculating as the men — 
and there are a few now who are 
sufficiently so to partly avenge their 
weaker sisters — then it will be the men 
who will suffer; but that time is far 
distant, if it ever comes.” 

44 It was not very long,” she con- 
tinued, 44 before, in a way I can 
hardly explain, that I could only feel, 
he began to make me understand that 
it was I who was the sinful one. In 
little things, I cannot tell you how, he 
put me on a lower plane and took the 
stand of the immaculate. 

44 He had done no wrong. It was 1. 1. 
Was that fair? After all his talk of the 
rightness of it, the idiocy, that was what 
he called it, of having a priest stand up 
and mutter some words over you, of the 
holiness of two lives mated like the birds, 
held by love and by love only.” 

44 When it comes to a question of love, 
justice so far as woman is concerned, 
flies out of the window,” I averred. 

44 You are lucky if you get any at all.” 

44 If he had only said he loved me and 

181 


T/ze Color of His Soul 

then left me, but he left me so cruelly, so 
cruelly. He wanted to be decent, he 
said. Decent! After all that talk of 
the holiness of being held by love ! That 
word on his lips should have killed my 
love at once; but it did not. Love is 
hard to kill.” 

“ Woman's love.” I corrected. 

“ I mean woman's love. Decent ! If 
he had meant that, then bitter as it was 
I should have thought it at least heroic. 
If he had said, 4 1 love you but I want to 
quit this life, and lead a better one/ I 
should have gone on idealizing him, but 
there were other girls. I was not the 
only one to whom he had brought violets. 
I knew that afterward from one of the 
girls.” 

She was silent a while. 

44 1 thought I should die,” she broke 
out then with a passion that startled 
me, she had hitherto spoken with such 
apparent calmness, “my heart hurt so ! 
Who thought of my ruined life, torn 
from its purity — I hadn't an evil thought 
that he had not taught me — dragged 
through the mire, then turned adrift, 
and he ... he talked of decency !” 

182 


The Color of His Soul 

44 There are two standards of mor- 
ality,” I asserted, 4 4 one for the man and 
another for the woman* It is so that 
some semblance of purity may still 
perfume the world* Once lower woman's 
standard of morality to that of man, and 
we descend to the kingdomof the animal. 
♦ * ♦ Unless a woman is born immoral, 
inherits immorality from some particu- 
larly vicious paternal ancestor to such a 
degree that she is to all intents and pur- 
poses soulless, and there are some such 
women, one sin reduces her to a con- 
dition of despair which few men know 
who have committed a hundred* It is 
best so, or what would the world be? A 
Sodom and Gomorrah !” 

Taking up a ruffle of her fichu she 
wiped away her tears* 

“ The nights I have sobbed through,” 
she faltered* 44 That I have walked the 
floor. * * from door to window, have sat 
up in my little bed, rocking back and 
forth, like the pendulum of a clock, pres- 
sing the bed clothing into my mouth to 
stifle my cries. The nights ! The 
nights ! 

44 And do you know what he said when 

183 


The Color of His Soul 

he left me ? Oh ! I had knelt, frantic, 
clasping my hands, wild with the terror 
of the future, half mad with grief, antici- 
pating the nights to come, begging God 
to help me, and he stood at the door* ‘Go 
to your God/ he said, his strange eyes 
glittering, ‘and let the passion of religion 
stand you in stead for the passion of 
man/ ” 

I took her in my arms and rocked her 
back and forth, pressing my hands to her 
wet cheek and to her hair* 

“ Don't think of it,” I implored. 

“ Those days are over now, and so are 
the nights* Think of your little white 
cot up stairs with the screen around it 
and of this still and pleasant room. 

Think of this haven of rest you have 
dropped into so softly, and listen to the 
nuns* You are not alone. For all of us 
there are chambers of horrors, the doors 
of which we must shut or go mad. For 
all of us there have been nights through 
which we have been rocked by heart- 
pain, swung back and forth as you say 
like the pendulum of a clock, dumb with 
grief. Forget those nights and listen to 
the nuns.” 


184 


The Color of His Soul 

For tender as the voice of a mother 
singing to her child rose the voices of the 
nuns, now resonant and seemingly near, 
now liltingly far away and soft and sweet 
as the palpitation of an echo. 

Elsie sobbed convulsively, listening. 

44 But there's one thing, Dolly," her 
broken voice continued by and by, 

44 that I am glad of. And that is, he 
never gave me money. On the con- 
trary, he often borrowed it of me." 

“ Oh no, Elsie 1" 

44 Yes. Often. That is something 
that helped to keep up my pride . I was 
never dependent on him. I never owed 
him anything. Not a dollar. Not a 
cent." 

44 And did he know of the child ?" 

44 Yes. I think it made him afraid. 
He didn't know what trouble it might 
bring on him and his family. Besides, I 
believe he was held in high esteem by the 
people with whom he went; and that, if 

known, would hurt him. And so he left 
** 

me. 

44 To bear it alone." 

44 To bear it alone. It is always the 
way. It is the way with these girls here, 

185 


TTze Color of His Soul 

or they wouldn't be here* One was 
brought by her priest. Her parents 
don't know where she is. She is only 
sixteen and her sweetheart left her. 
Another was the stenographer of a 
married man. Nobody knows his name. 
She will not let them know. He deserted 
her, but she protects him and his name. 

I kept on at my place, as I said, as long 
as they would let me stay. Then I 
drifted to the slums where my good 
angel sent you to me. How could I help 
believing in God when he let my good 
angel send me you?" 

I tightened my arms about her. 

44 Listen to the voices," I whispered 
44 Aren't they sweet, the voices of those 
nuns, those gentle women, shut away 
from the world and its temptations, 
away from some happiness, maybe; but 
happiness that must be paid for with 
one's life blood, with more, much more 
than its weight in pain." 

The chant rose melodiously clear as if 
a door opening between had let the 
sound in to us. 

“ They are like angels singing," wept 
Elsie. 


The Color of His Soul 

44 If they know nothing of such happi- 
ness,” I went on, 44 what do they miss? 
Nothing. And is it happiness ? That is 
the question. 

44 How good it is to live serenely aloof 
from the companionship of man, a com- 
panionship which is so often the syno- 
nym of unhappiness, helping those who, 
like you, are paying the penalty of some 
short while of that seeming happiness.” 

We were quiet a space, tuned to the 
music of the chant. 

44 You are right,” I said, then , 44 they 
are like angels singing, these pious 
women of the holy lives.” 

The voices sank to a whisper. It was 
as if someone had slowly shut the door. 

Elsie sobbed anew, listening. 

44 Hu§h now,” I begged, 44 hush now. 
Lie still and forget.” 

They died away. Her sobs ceased 
with them. She lay like a tired child in 
my arms, her red lips parted, her long 
wet lashes on her flushed cheek, resting. 


187 


CHAPTER XIX. 

m N place of the accustomed re- 
jected manuscripts I found at 
my plate three letters, accept- 
ing stories and asking for 
more. Ah! I could scarcely restrain 
my joy. In a miraculous way Elsie and I 
were to be provided for. I rushed to my 
room, tossed up some stories in a heads or 
tails fashion, inserted them in envelopes, 
addressed them promiscuously, mailed 
them and hurried to the hospital, where 
I was surprised to find a man on the 
top step, red faced and raving; some 
children lower down eyeing him open- 
mouthed, anxiously awaiting develop- 
ments. 

Giving him as wide a berth as possible 
I passed up and in a frightened way rang 
the bell. 

Sister Annunciata, who tended the 
door, opened it to the extent of revealing 
one dilated eye. 

“ Is he there yet?” she gasped. 

“ Yes. But open the door just wide 
enough to let me in and you can shut it 

188 



The Color of His Soul 


again.” 

She obeyed. I rushed through and 
she hastily clamped the brass chain down 
after me. 

44 His wife is here with a week old 
baby,” she explained , 44 and he wants to 
see her. He can't. It is against the 
rules. So he threatens to burn the 
house down.” 

44 You are taking care of his wife and 
baby without pay,” I mused , 44 and he 
threatens to burn the house down.” 

She smiled. 

44 That is nothing unusual,” she 
affirmed. 44 It's the way they mostly 
treat us. We've sent for a policeman. 
We often have to send for a policeman to 
protect us from these people we spend 
our lives in befriending.” 

44 Can I see Elsie to-day?” 

She was disposed to be lenient. 

44 Go up to her room,” she said. 44 You 
will find her there.” 

I found her busy sewing. She threw 
her arms around me, then made room 
for me opposite her in another rocking 
chair. 

44 Do you know,” she began, bending 

189 


The Color of His Soul 

again over her work, “ that there are 
eighty-five babies tip in the dormitory ?" 

44 Eighty-five !" I exclaimed* 

“ Yes* All ages from four or five 
down* The prettiest babies in the world* 
I saw them yesterday* But only a few of 
them have names* That's hard, isn't it ? 
For a little baby to start out in the world 
without a name?" 

44 1 don't know* They are probably 
quite as well off as they would be with 
the names of the wretches who forsook 
their mothers* I think it would be a 
good plan anyway for the child to take 
the name of the mother^ Then it would 
be certain of a name* Whose babies 
are these?" 

44 The girls' who come here* They 
leave them* The nurses take them 
away before they can see them. Other- 
wise they grieve and grieve* Some 
grieve as it is. They cry for them and 
cry for them. I heard a girl in the next 
room crying for hers last night, way in 
the night, just sobbing. I asked the 
nurse what was the matter, and she told 
me that was it* She was crying to see 
her little baby they had taken away. . . 

190 


*77 xe Color of His Soul 

And do you know, Dolly,” her voice 
sank lower , 44 a girl died here last night. 
They tried not to let us know, but she 
was on this floor. We couldn't help 
knowing. The sisters were all out in the 
hall, kneeling before the blessed Virgin 
there, praying for her soul. It was the 
little sixteen year old girl I was telling 
you about, the one who was brought 
here by her priest. The priest came to 
give her absolution. I saw him pass by 
in his long black robes, the nuns following 
with candles. You don't know how 
weird it was to see all that way in the 
night. It frightened me.” 

She was silent a moment. 

44 Maybe there'll be a procession like 
that soon for me,” she said then ; 44 and 
nuns kneeling in the hall, praying for my 
soul.” 

44 Hush l Hush!” 

44 He pardoned all her sins, that 
priest,” she went on. 44 She smiled up 
at him, they told me, and said, 4 1 am 
going to Jesus.' Then in a few 
minutes she died. It seems strange that 
a man can forgive sins; but it must be 
comforting, mustn't it, to go out of the 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

world, shriven ? Do yon believe that a 
priest can absolve you?” 

“ 1 don't, but I am very lenient with 
all beliefs* Believe any thing out of 
which you can wrench a drop of happi- 
ness, is my motto in this drab old world 
so full of unhappiness that it seems 
hardly worth while living in it*” 

44 Why, Dolly,” looking up at me in 
amazement* “ I didn't know you ever 
felt like that* You who are always so 
gay.” 

44 1 don't often. And so the little girl 
died last night, and went all white and 
forgiven of her sins, shriven, as you say, 
to heaven?” 

“I'm almost sure she went to heaven,” 
asserted Elsie, running her needle slowly 
through a tuck* 

“ And I know it. A baby girl like 
that, hardly out of the cradle herself, and 
so sinned against! Of course she did* 
She died then away from her father and 
mother and brothers and sisters, if she 
had any, away from everybody who 
cared for her ?” 

“ Yes* Dolly, if I should die, do you 
think I will go to heaven ? Never a 


192 


ffiie Color of His Soul 

night passes that I don't beg to be for- 
given." 

44 1 am sure of it as I am that the little 
girl is there now. But why talk of dying? 
You will live and we won't let the baby 
go up stairs and you lie here grieving for 
it, crying in the night. We will keep it 
and find work later on when you are able 
and perhaps you and I can live together 
in a little flat. Who knows ! Any 
happy thing might happen. We will 
make it happen." And I blessed the 
editors who had accepted my stories that 
morning, asking for more, thus making 
the thought of the flat possible. Also 
I tried to root out some bitterness that 
lurked in my heart against my editor 
friend who had discouraged me so. How 
dared he? Sometimes I was wicked 
enough to wish that all those who had 
wilfully discouraged me might bum. 

Was it wickedness, or just wrath? Those 
old Bible duffers, as Cecil called them, 
were always praying for the heavens to 
fall and paralyze their enemies. 

44 1 want to keep the little baby," she 
breathed presently, fondling the tucks. 

44 1 want to keep it. We will keep it, 


193 


The Color of His Soul 
won't we Dolly?" 

44 Of course we will/' I assured her. 

“ Of course." 

I took up a hem of the skirt she was 
sewing on. 

44 You are making this so beautifully," 
I admired. 44 1 never saw neater sewing 
than yours, Elsie." 

She laughed delightedly. 

“ Didn't I tell you I sewed well," 
holding it up. 44 Look. Aren't the 
tucks fine. Aren't they tiny, and 
straight as straight can be ?" 

44 They are. ♦ ♦ You are like a French 
woman for aptness with your needle, dear. 
Do you know, I should like to see all 
those eighty-five babies up stairs. It 
must be a bee hive of babies. Do you 
suppose they will let me see them?" 

She peeped around the screen. 

“ Nurse," she called softly. “ Can we 
go upstairs and see the babies to-day?" 

44 I'll ask Mother St. John," returned 
the nurse and vanished. 

44 What odd names they have. Mother 
St. John." 

44 They are named after every saint in 
the calendar and all the priests in the 


194 


The Color of His Soul 

Bible* It's like walking thro ugh Pales- 
tine to hear the roll call*" 

The nurse came back* 

44 Mother St* John says you can come/' 
she informed us* 

Elsie, leaving her sewing, went with 
me* At the head of the steps stood 
Mother St* John. Swinging to her skirts 
was a red cheeked boy of four. One 
chubby hand grasped her crucifix hung 
from the long black beads that encircled 
her waist. 

Opening the wide doors for us they 
issued us into the dormitory, where I 
came to a standstill, awe struck at the 
number of babies massed under that 
roof. 

Two rooms stretching indefinitely, 
filled with two rows of cots* Eighty- 
five babies in snowy cribs set side by side 
in two long rows* It was a sight to 
remember. 

Some lay still and slept* Some sat 
erect and crowed, while some sobbed 
softly, big tears welling over lids as if 
they knew* 

Mother St* John walked by me, the 
boy still clinging to her skirts, toddling 

195 


T/ze Color of His Soul 


fondly* 

44 What becomes of them?'' I asked 
her , 44 after they leave here?” 

44 They are put in a home,” she 
answered , 44 where they are taught a 
trade* Then at the age of ten or twelve 
they are self-supporting*” 

At the age of ten or twelve ! 

At an age when children with names 
played in the dawn of rosy futures, these 
nameless children would begin labor- 
iously, hopelessly, the work of life l 

Homeless, placeless, they would start 
out on difficult paths towards futures 
doubly darkened by the flush of shame* 

44 Are these the mothers who sit at the 
heads of the cots, tending them?” I 
questioned* 

44 No,” she replied* 44 They are the 
hired nurses.” 

Hired nurses ! 

Then their infant eyes opened on 
strange cold eyes* Their infant cries fell 
on strange and apathetic ears, dull, 
insensible. 

The thought of it hurt my heart. I 
hurried Elsie down. On our way we 
passed a balcony along which girls 

196 


TTie Color of His Soul 

walked slowly to and fro. Their faces 
were hidden by slatted sun-bonnets. 
They were completely hidden. Not an 
eye could be seen. Not a nose nor a 
mouth. 

44 Why do they wear those sun- 
bonnets?” I asked. 

44 Many of them belong to good 
families,” she replied. 44 They are afraid 
of being seen. ♦ ♦ ♦ Why do you smile? 
What are you thinking about?” 

44 1 was just wondering,” I explained, 
“ if the fathers of their children were 
going about in long slatted sunbonnets, 
ashamed to be seen. That is all.” 

44 Must you go now?” she interro- 
gated, stopping at her door. 44 Don't go. 
Stay a little while longer with me.” 

44 No. I must go. ♦ ♦ It will soon be 
lunch time. I can't stay to lunch here, 
you know. They won't have me. Come, 
walk down stairs with me.” 

“ It is like part of my heart going out 
of the door with you every time, Dolly. 
Say?” 

44 Well. What is it?” 

She took my fingers up and toyed with 
them as she talked. 


197 


The Color of His Soul 

44 They won’t send for you* They 
told me so. It is against their rules. 
They have so many rules, you know. So 
that, I suppose, when I need you most, I 
shall be without you.” 

I took her face between my hands. 

44 When you need me,” I said, looking 
into her eyes , 44 call me. Strange things 
happen to me sometimes. They have 
always happened to me. Strange things 
and weird. I believe if you are in great 
pain and want me, Elsie, I shall some- 
how hear your voice. You may be sure 
I will.” 

44 Then I will call your name , 4 Dolly, 
Dolly/ and you will hear?” 

44 1 am sure.” 

I kissed her twice and left her stand- 
ing in the hall. 

At the open door, prompted by some 
inexplicable impulse, I ran back and 
kissed her again. . . A sort of joy 
leaped into my heart at the glad surprise 
shining in her big sad eyes as I kissed 
her, and stayed there. 


198 


CHAPTER XX. 

JTST been invited with formal 

II D B P om P and ceremony to hear 
Jill i Cecil's great speech given 
i&Es&S before a down-town club. 

The leader of the socialists was to be 
there, and his new wife. 

I went alone, but I was met at the 
door by Tucket. He escorted me to a 
seat. 

44 Cecil gave me explicit instructions 
to watch after you,” he explained . 44 He 
is busy talking to his friends. You can 
see him if you look. There he is, stand- 
ing head and shoulders above most of 
them. He is a finely built man.” 

At that moment, with a smile and a 
bow he came forward, distinguishing me 
by a handshake. His manner was 
subtly different. I had the feeling of 
being put off a yard or two, while the 
honor he was doing me by walking the 
length of the room to take me by the 
hand pressed heavily in upon me. 

I looked admiringly up at him, trying 
hard not to think of the quantities of ink 


199 



T/ie Color of His Soul 

his father was engaged in distributing 
over the state in the gigantic effort to 
support him — and of the money he owed 
me* 

The seats near us filled up* People 
talked in low tones of the speaker* 

44 He is wonderful, they say,” declared 
one , 44 this young disciple of Herron's, 
this almost anarchist* It will be a rare 
treat to hear him* This speech of his 
has already caused several strikes*” 

Tucket turned a large calm eye upon 
me* 

“ Noble business this,” said he* 

44 Deliberately lying awake nights think- 
ing up a speech that will cause strikes* 
What's the world coming to ? How 
about your slums?” with a quick change 
of subject* 44 Have you deserted 
them?” 

44 Yes* The weather is too hot for 
slums* Besides, I am better occupied.” 

* How?” 

But of course I could not tell him 
about Elsie. So: 

44 Who's that going up on the stage?”. 
I begged to know* 

He craned his neck. 


200 


T/le Color of His Soul 

44 It's Herron. See him beam on 
Cecil. He is very much interested, they 
say, in his young disciple." 

44 1 wonder how he feels about all these 
things they are saying of him." 

“ At present he is like a terrapin with- 
out his shell," he explained. 44 He'll be 
somewhat sensitive, I imagine, until it 
has had time to grow on again. Hush ! 
They are calling us to order." 

44 4 Hush !' Was I talking?" 

He evaded the reproach of my glance, 
and fixed his eyes on the stage, where, 
after a few choice words of introduction 
from Herron, Cecil rose, stood for a 
moment in silence, looking calmly over 
the audience, then in clear and even 
tones began. 

His argument was the same as in the 
hall in the slums, with the exception that 
it had been elaborated upon. During 
those months of physical idleness he had 
not been mentally idle. He had em- 
ployed his time well in chiseling his 
speech. As nearly perfect as a speech of 
that character could be, he had made it. 

From repetition his various classes of 
slavery had become familiar to me, 


201 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

feudal, chattel, and wage, the slavery of 
to-day* As before, he gloated over his 
favorite phrase, the 44 Wage Slaves! ” 
Wage slaves ! Wage slaves ! 

44 They are beginning to pall upon me 
a little,” I whispered to Tucket , 44 those 
wage slaves of Cecil's. Listen. Now 
he is commencing about the sweatshops. 
Soon he'll describe the half grown boys 
standing knee deep in the blood of 
animals, cutting up the meat we eat. It 
sounds well, all that; but do you 
know, I looked and looked, and I never 
did find those half grown boys standing 
knee deep in blood.” 

44 They are probably born of Cecil's 
lively imagination,” he reflected; then, 

44 This world is pretty much what you 
make it,” he continued , 44 and how you 
look at it. If you go on a still hunt for 
trouble, you'll find it every time. If 
you hunt for sunshine, you'll find that, 
too. Naturally we are all of us more or 
less slaves in one way or another. W e 
belong to the great bee hive of the world 
which must hum in order to make the 
honey; but there's often much of 
pleasure in the humming.” 


202 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

44 Now hear him/' said I, after an 
interval of listening , 44 tearing to pieces 
our political party, our leaders, our 
President, our millionaires* I know this 
old speech by heart, and I am tired of it* 
In every bee hive there is the king bee* 
He is necessary* So long as there must 
be a leader, why permit the little bees to 
sting him to death?" 

44 1 should like to have Cecil hear you 
call him a little bee once," whispered 
Tucket* 44 What ! The young disciple of 
Herron, a little bee ! Watch the rapt 
countenance of these listeners* A little 
bee indeed !" 

I looked about me* There was no 
nodding among those cultured people as 
among the people of the slums* No 
boisterous and impertinent fire crackers 
disturbed the even tenor of his discourse* 
No saucy slum children bobbed curls at 
the window panes, distracting the atten- 
tion of those within* On the contrary* 
Flower filled hats of the finest moved 
delightedly forward in assent to the flow- 
ing smoothness of his periods and men of 
countenances intellectual followed his 
words with reverence, many with an 


203 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

expression faintly resembling that of 
awe* 

I was amazed at the wonderful prog- 
ress made by the boy orator* Observ- 
ing his striking aspect, his splendid 
gestures, his improved pronunciation 
and accent, I came to the final conclu- 
sion that he had been 44 called*” Perhaps 
after all they might give him a job as 
speaker which would enable him to earn 
his salt and pay some of his debts. My 
hopes arose; but, realizing that the 
higher the hopes, the greater the fall 
thereof, I succeeded in suppressing to a 
certain degree their jubilance* 

If the peroration had been fierce in the 
slums it was cyclonic now, gathering 
added force from the approving glances 
of his infatuated audience* Frequently 
he was interrupted by applause at which 
times, sweeping the audience with the 
magnetism of his peculiar eyes he waited 
patiently until his voice could once more 
make itself heard, then woke the echoes 
with the noble peal of its resonance. 

As I had expected the boys standing 
ankle deep in blood came in on the last 
round, loping, the Wage Slaves at our 


204 


The Color of His Soul 

elbows in the slums of New York, 
huddled into tenements, bowed in sweat- 
shops, toiling by the dim light of 
windows opening onto air shafts, ground 
to the earth by the iron hand of the 
Almighty Dollar, followed close at their 
heels — and then came the climax* It 
was the same old climax with an added 
touch of fierceness for the further heat- 
ing of the blood necessary for the engen- 
dering of strikes. 

“ What of these wage slaves?” he 
demanded ferociously, his eyes on fire. 

“ What of these serfs? Is it not time 
and past time for some John Brown ♦ . .” 

“ Poor old John,” interpolated 
Tucket. . . . 

“to strike their note of freedom ? A 
note that will sound and resound from 
state to state, from shore to shore, from 
ocean to ocean, a bugle call that shall 
strike terror to the heart of the oppressor 
of the poor, that shall unleash the bonds, 
unclash their crushing chains and, 
snatching them up from the slough of 
despond, free them forever and forever. 

“ I say the time has come. And this 
is the hour.” 


205 


The Color of Hts Soul 

He sat down amid a thunder of 
applause* A subdued rustle ensued as 
admiring faces were turned to admiring 
faces and hands caught sleeves in the 
nervous thrill of excitement generated 
by the power of his marvelous magnet- 
ism; a louder rustle as they arose 
simultaneously and pressed toward the 
stage in the frantic hope of touching the 
hand that had so felicitously animated 
the atmosphere, or of hearing one word 
spoken by the eloquence of his gifted 
tongue, a personal word, such as, * I am 
happy to meet you !' or, 4 I am glad to 
see you here !' 

44 It's miraculous," averred Tucket, 
mopping his large brow with two large 
handkerchiefs* 44 1 never saw anything 
like it in my life* I can hear the echo yet* 
I have the greatest notion in the world to 
go right out now and get up a strike !" 

I laughed* 

44 It is no laughing matter* Think of 
those wage slaves ! Those W age Slaves ! 
THOSE WAGE SLAVES!" 

44 Hush* They'll hear you." 

44 1 can't hush* I'm excited. I'm 
half mad with excitement* That's what 

ao6 


The Color of His Soul 

I am* Who wouldn't be ? If I had a 
gun convenient, who knows but I might 
rush madly from this room and shoot 
those awful millionaires or the President? 

** Hush/' I cautioned* " Don't 
breathe the thought*" 

44 But it's just such geniuses, such fire- 
brands as this great boy orator who 
bring about such results* And will you 
stop for one moment and ponder upon 
the fact that we know this youth, this 
Wonder of the Age ! That we have 
actually a speaking acquaintance with 
him, that we have sat at the same table, 
have clasped his hand — have been 
touched by him !" 

I caught his eye* 

"What! You, too!" I cried* 

He turned his head in a quizzical way 
he had, and observed me minutely* 

“ Now look here," he ejaculated* 

44 You don't mean to say that you are 
another victim ? How much did he 
borrow? Well, never mind* Shake. 

We are friends, companions in misery. 
Shake again." 

44 1 am afraid they will tear him to 
pieces," I exclaimed , 44 and carry the 


207 


The Color of Hts Soul 

pieces away as souvenirs. Who is that 
tall girl sailing up to him ? The girl in 
white with the big white hat ?” 

“ That is Miss McAllister. It is 
reported that they are to be married in 
the fall.” 

" On what?” 

44 Don't you worry. It is she who has 
the dough. Who is going home with 
you?” 

“ Cecil supposedly.” 

Cecil just then started toward us, 
elbowing his way carefully, politely, 
fearful of offending his crowd of 
admirers by an attempt at pushing. 

Eventually he reached us. 

“ Tucket,” he said. 44 Will you see 
Dolly home? I should like to escort 
Miss McAllister.” 

44 May I have the pleasure?” enquired 
Tucket of me, bowing servilely. 

44 Since I am not permitted to go with 
the sun/' I answered, “ I suppose I must 
endeavor to put up with a lesser planet.” 

Whereupon Cecil, with a low, grave, 
smileless bow, left me. 

Tucket and I exchanged astonished 
glances. 


208 


The Color of His Soul 

44 1 believe he thought I meant it,” I 
gasped* 

44 1 am perfectly sure,” said he , 44 that 
he did” 


309 


CHAPTER XXL 



I T four o'clock I roused sud- 
denly and sat up in bed. I 
rubbed my eyes open and 
stared through the shutters 


at the dim gray of the dawn just com- 
mencing, the early dawn, out of which 
there had come a voice calling to me, — 
Elsie's voice. 

I lay back a moment, trying to lull 
myself into the belief that I had been 
mistaken; but sleep had forsaken me. 
The impression bearing in upon me that 
she suffered, that she had cried out for 
me as I had told her to do would not let 
me rest. 

Early as it was I rose, dashed cold 
water into my eyes, dressed, and open- 
ing my door noiselessly, crept down-stairs 
to the hall, opened that also noiselessly 
and went out into the street. 

It was empty at that hour and deso- 
late. Some few men in white, like 
ghosts of men, swept the gutters. A 
tired policeman sauntered slowly by. 
The whir of an empty car broke the quiet 


Vie Color of His Soul 
and passed. 

I hurried to the corner and took one of 
those cars. I was its only passenger. 
We rushed onward for blocks, I changed 
then to one drawn by two sleepy white 
horses, driven by a sleepier driver, and 
alighted at length at the corner, beyond 
which loomed the dark red tower of the 
hospital kept by the little Sisters of 
Misery. 

Sister Annunciata admitted me. Her 
eyes were red with sleeplessness. 

44 Did someone telegraph you?” she 
asked. 

44 No,” I answered, not endeavoring to 
explain the calling of Elsie, which, 
though quite simple to me, would in all 
probability have seemed inexplicable 
to her. 

44 She has been ill all night,” she told 
me. 44 But since four o'clock she has 
been worse.” 

I went along the gray hall, up the steps 
and into the upper hall out of which 
opened the door to Elsie's room. 

I entered. 

44 She is not in here,” said the girl who 
occupied the second cot. 44 She is in the 


21 I 


The Color of His Soul 

next room, the operating room, you 
know/' 

“ Do you think they will let me in?” I 
queried. 

44 1 am almost certain they will not. It 
is against their rules.” 

Going back, I stood in the hall. While 
I had talked with the girl one little sister 
after another had come from this door or 
that and knelt before the figure of the 
Blessed Virgin. Quiet, black-robed 
figures, kneeling, praying and telling 
their beads in the dim light of the dawn. 

They were praying for Elsie. 

I knelt back of them near the door of 
the shut room where she was. 

Presently the door opened and the 
nurse coming out saw me. She 
approached me. 

“ Will you tell her,” I implored, 

“ that I am here. If I could only go 
in to her !” 

44 You cannot. It will not be allowed. 
But I will tell her that you are here.” 

Then wearily commenced my vigil, 
my thoughts going back over the bitter 
pathway of Elsie's life, rushing then to 
her future, which I promised myself 


212 


'The Color of His Soul 

should be a happy one. No matter what 
sin they commit men stand by one 
another. I resolved to stand by her. 
Ah ! Good, that my work had succeeded, 
that, started by a little pastel which had 
made a hit, my stories were now in 
demand. 

She was more sinned against than 
sinning. She was pure in heart as any 
child. Together we would raise the 
child, and then, and then — my thoughts 
flew fast to the meeting maybe of 
some good strong man who would take 
her in his arms and compensate for all 
her misery. 

My knees hurt with so long kneeling. 
The little sisters unmindful of the hurt, 
knelt as if grown to the floor. One leant 
exhaustedly against the wall, her veined 
lids closed, her pale lips moving. 

All were pale as so many statues; for 
the livelong night they had come again 
and again, kneeling and praying for 
Elsie. 

It was six by the great clock in the hall 
when the nurse opened the door a second 
time. 

44 The child is born,” she said, but 


213 


Color of His Soul 

added quickly as the sisters rose from 
their knees , 44 it is dead.” 

They sank silently down again, pray- 
ing for the passing of its soul* 

44 You may go to her room now,” the 
nurse whispered to me , 44 and wait there 
till we bring her in.” 

Her cot had been made ready for her, 
but I patted the pillows and straightened 
out the sheet to pass away the time. 

On a near-by table she had laid out 
tenderly, carefully with dainty mother 
fingers the clothes for the child. A tear 
fell on them as I fingered the ruffles I 
had seen her stitch, and the lace. 

It was not long before the nurse flung 
wide the door and stood aside making 
room for the strong young doctor who 
bore Elsie in his arms from the operating 
room, as if she had been a child, helpless, 
frail, livid, her head on his shoulder, her 
small bare feet hanging pitifully down. 

He laid her on the cot and they 
stretched the white sheet over her up to 
her throat. 

She turned her head and her eyes fell 
on me; but there was no sign of recog- 
nition in their bright blue depths. 


214 


Hhe Color of His Soul 

“ What is it?” I faltered* " She does 

not know me ! I ” 

The doctor smoothed the matted 
yellow hair away from her face* 

44 Hash !” he said, his tone as low as a 
whisper. 44 She is very ill.” 


315 


CHAPTER XXII. 

J iS^T|LL through the day we had 

■/AX) 1 waited and watched and 

I tended her. All night also, 
•qtangrnj? and it was dawn again, early 
dawn, and Elsie was dying. 

Out in the long hall the little nuns 
knelt praying for her soul, the candles 
lighted before the Blessed Virgin to 
illumine the way of its passing. 

Never once had she looked on me with 
a glance of recognition. There was 
apparently no suffering. There had 
been no crying out with pain. Her soul 
was quietly leaving her body. That 
was all. 

They had telegraphed to the man who 
had deserted her. At the first she had 
given them his name with directions that 
they were to let him know in case there 
was no hope. 

We waited for him. 

And while we waited her life went out 
snuffed like a candle. 

The nurse pressed the white lids down, 
she shut the lips from which the red had 

216 


The Color of His Soul 

gone, and Elsie's soul had followed the 
soul of the little sixteen year old girl 
straight to heaven* 

For a while I knelt by the bed and 
sobbed* Then, standing aside I had 
watched them straighten the sheet over 
her still form and place candles at her 
head and at her feet* 

The candles shed a lambent glow over 
the marble of her face, and over the 
yellow wealth of her soft fair hair* 

I fell to sobbing again as I looked at 
her in the light of those candles, though 
in my heart I knew it was best that the 
aching heart should cease to beat and 
the small feet rest from treading the 
path that had been a path of thorns* 

44 He is coming,” announced the nurse, 
from the door. Then: 44 He is here.” 

I brushed away the tears, looked and 
saw, standing in the doorway first, then 
advancing with some hesitation into the 
room, Cecil ! 

I started back with a smothered cry. 
Impossible ! And yet ! And yet ! I 
should have known* Again and again 
she had described him to me. It was 
only my density that had prevented my 

217 


T/ie Color of His Soul 


knowing* 

“ A tall young man, with strangely 
peculiar eyes, brilliant as to intellect, full 
of blasphemy, soulless, heartless and 
Godless l ft 

Yes* I should have known* 

He stood across the cot from me, 
looking down at her* There was not a 
quiver about his lip* There was not a 
tear in his eye* 

The nurse, tiptoeing, left the room* 

We were alone with the dead. 

I breathed hard* My soul surged 
with bitterness toward him, knowing 
her life* I bit my lip to keep back the 
torrent of words that fought for utter- 
ance* 

After one glance he had turned his 
strange eyes away from the calm of her 
face and rested them on me* 

Still, not a tear* Defiance rather, as 
if he would have employed his flower of 
eloquence in his defense* 

His attitude left me with the wish to 
grapple at his throat* I understood 
intuitively the thirst for blood in 
husbands of wronged wives, in fathers of 
wronged children. 


218 


The Color of His Soul 

The hashed lisp of the little Sisters, 
praying for her soul, helped still the 
passionate anger of my own* 

“ You are right,” I said, my voice 
trembling with the effort to be calm* 

44 Young as you are, if I coaid see yoar 
naked soal coming toward me I shoald 
ran away screaming* I have a glimpse 
of it now* I know the color of it, and it 
is black. I coaid cry oat with terror at 
the sight, bat I will not. 

“Hash! Yoa have no defense* She 
has told me the story* No* Do not 
talk* This is yoar first crime, perhaps, 
a doable crime, for the child, too, is dead, 
bat it will not be yoar last. There are 
some men to whom women are nataral 
prey, and yoa are one of them; My soal 
sickens ander the gleam of yoar eyes* It 
recoils. It faints. 

44 Go* Leave this place. It is too 
holy for the toach of yoar footstep* . * . 
It is the place of prayers for the constant 
passing of the soals of martyred girls* 

44 Go* Leave me with my dead/' 

I sank on my knees and baried my 
face in the sheet that covered Elsie* 
When at last I raised my eyes the 


219 


^The Color of His Soul 

candles at her head and at her feet had 
burned low in their sockets — and he was 
gone. 


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JAN 29 1902 





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